


Dark and Dawn

by ladyxdarcy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, Abusive Dursley Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Character Death, Depressed Harry, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Healer Severus Snape, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentor Severus Snape, No Romance, No Slash, Parent Severus Snape, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Reference to Non-Consent that doesn't take place, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Severus Snape Being a Bastard, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Suicidal Harry, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags Subject to Change, Undecided on Horcruxes at this time, Vernon Dursley Being an Asshole, trying to tag everything i can think of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyxdarcy/pseuds/ladyxdarcy
Summary: When Severus Snape woke that morning, he had no idea what was in store for him. Finding a badly damaged and abused Harry Potter in the hands of Death Eater hopefuls on his doorstep, Severus soon realises he must protect and heal the boy he hates; mind, body, and soul. And all this without alerting Dumbledore or the Dark Lord of the boy's presence, of course.As the old saying goes, however, "It's Always Darkest Before The Dawn."Post-OotP AU. Eventual Guardian Severus Snape.





	1. Prelude & Surprise at Spinner's End

**_Prelude_ **

Vernon Dursley of #4 Privet Drive scowled angrily down into his cheap paper cup of coffee as he trundled his way down the pavement back towards Grunnings. This summer had not turned out at all the way he had hoped it would. Pet was pulling away from him, and even Dudders was starting to question him more and more, and he knew that it was all that freak’s fault.

They had, once upon a time, agreed with his actions towards the Potter spawn, and had even helped him out with the brat’s punishments, but ever since that blasted letter last summer there had been a definite change in Petunia. Oh, she certainly didn’t _like_ the little freak, but she had stopped encouraging Vernon’s actions, and had one more than one occasion actually had an expression of disapproval. She’d once even had the gall to ask if he thought he was a little too heavy-handed. Him! After it had been _her_ that had first started the freak’s punishments when he’d been just a pup. Vernon was, after all, only carrying out her original wishes like the good husband he was.

But no. Now she was worried that they might be _too rough_ on the ingrate, but she never actually told Vernon to stop, so that was more than enough answer for him. Had she done so, he might have thought he freak had used his freakishness on her and put her under a s-p-e-l-l or something. Besides, it wasn’t like Vernon broke any more of the boy’s bones or anything, and he barely ever broke flesh, unless the freak deserved it. It certainly wasn’t Vernon’s fault that the freak got into so much mischief and mayhem.

The worst part, however, was Dudley.

His perfect son had actually said that maybe Harry didn’t deserve it! As if the freak hadn’t been causing them trouble from day one! Hell, Vernon was the last one to get in on being physical with the boy, and yet his wife and son had began looking at him like _he_ was in the wrong! Instead of _that boy!_

Dudley had been quieter ever since last summer too, Vernon couldn’t help but note, ever since he and the freak had come into the house talking about dementeds or whatever. Dudley had been shaken up something awful, but once he’d seemed to calm down from that ordeal he’d grown quiet and passive, looking almost pained as he stared off into space. No doubt more work of the freak. If it weren’t for the boy’s murderous godfather, Vernon would have flayed him alive. He had been only too thankful to come home one night and find the brat gone. At least for another year.

Then the boy had returned, and he’d been even more of a menace than usual, talking back and uncaring of whatever rightful punishment Vernon brought down upon him. He was an impossible little freak, and soon it was just him punishing the boy, without the support of his family, not that they ever tried to actually stop Vernon. That was tacit agreement right there. Besides, had they stepped in, he would know that they really were under the boy’s M-word control and Vernon would have snapped the little bastard’s neck. How dare he use his freakishness on Vernon’s family!

Of course, Vernon hadn’t been able to punish the brat as he so rightly deserved lately, not with his blasted godfather reading his letters, but then something amazing happen. The boy had always been prone to nightmares, and Vernon lost count of how many shoes he’d had to throw at him to wake him up from his disgusting fits, moaning and whinging about boys named Cedric and green light. Should have known the freak would be a little poufter. And then, a brilliant miracle had occurred, and the little sleeping freak let slip some of the best news Vernon had ever heard.

Black was dead.

Vernon had practically rubbed his hands together with glee at that. Finally, the freak’s proper punishments could begin again. And they had. Oh, they definitely had. The boy had looked shocked when Vernon’s hand met his cheek after so long, but the boy’s bluster was short-lived. He still put up the token argument, still talked back and showed what an ungrateful little sod he was, but slowly Vernon was putting the freak back in his proper place. There was no one to stand up for him now, and the fact that no other freaks came bursting into his house to accost him for thwacking the boy meant that either no one cared, or the freak wasn’t telling anyone. Either one worked out well for Vernon.

Except now Petunia and Dudley had stopped smiling when Vernon punished the whelp, and Dudley even went so far as to say maybe they shouldn’t be so rough on him, and really, it was getting to be the last straw. Pet hardly even looked at him anymore, and he knew that it was all the freak’s fault. He just needed a way to get rid of the pest once and for all.

Almost as if the angels on high had heard his prayers, Vernon overheard a grumbled conversation as he turned the block heading back to the offices.

“—nd I don’t see why we should be patrolling the muggles,” one voice was complaining, and the word sounded familiar enough to catch Vernon’s attention, but the next words really brought him to focus.

“Idiot! The Dark Lord wants Potter, and Potter is protected by ‘em!” another voice snapped out, followed by what sounded like a smack and a muffled noise of pain.

“Well, yeah, but we don’t even know the muggles look like,” the first voice grumbled, and turning his head he caught sight of two bizarrely dressed men at the entrance to an alley. He paused in his stride, watching as the smaller of the two rubbed at his arm with an offended scowl up at the taller man.

“If you want to earn the Mark and become a _true_ Death Eater, then we need to prove we’ve got what it takes,” the second man hissed. “Just imagine bein’ able to walk up to the Dark Lord with one of Potter’s muggles, or Potter ‘imself even.” His smile was full of crooked teeth. “We’ll get Marked before you can say _Avada_. And we know one of ‘em works around here.”

Vernon frowned to himself, his mind whirring faster than it had in some time. He knew some of those words were familiar, but he especially knew the word _Potter_. And it sounded like these strange men were wanting to take Potter far, far away. Of course, it _technically_ could have been another Potter he supposed. He looked down at his coffee, probably much too cool now, and popped the lid back on the disposable cup before tossing it into the rubbish. He was wide awake now.

After debating with himself for a moment, Vernon cleared his throat and made his way over. “Excuse me,” he commented, eyeing the two men suspiciously. Vernon didn’t get where he was by being stupid, and he had a feeling that these men weren’t ordinary men either. The only people who’d know about the freak were other freaks themselves, and he was fairly certain this Dark Whatzit was after the boy. Which, for Vernon, worked out perfectly.

Nasty eyes narrowed as they sized Vernon up, and the taller of the men turned his head and spat on the ground. “What you want, tubby?” he sneered.

Vernon’s own eyes narrowed at that, but he had more important matters to see to first. “Look here, man. Are you talking about Harry Potter or not?”

“Whazzit to you?” the man said, but there was a calculating gleam in his shadowy eyes.

“You’re not with that blasted Order of the Peacock or whatever it is, are you?” Vernon demanded, not at all quailed by the danger in the man’s face. His eyes did notice how the shorter man reached into a pocket, however, pulling out a stick, and he felt vindicated. He might hate freaks, but he hated _the_ freak even more. “Because if not, I think we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he smirked.

This time, the other man’s eyes gleamed, and he held out a hand to forestall his companion. “Tell me then, muggle, what did you have in mind?”

Vernon’s smirk grew into a grin beneath his moustache. Finally he was going to protect his family from the freak and fix everything.

**********

Harry stared blankly at his wall as he laid curled up on his bed, one hand absently pressed against his painful side. Uncle Vernon had really done a number on him the previous night, and he could just tell that he had a new bruise forming. At least this one was able to be hidden beneath his shirt. He disliked it when Uncle Vernon smacked him across the face, because then he had to deal with the stares whenever he did manage to go out. Not that he did not much anymore.

Honestly, the Dursleys’ habit of locking him in his room just seemed like overkill nowadays. He just lately couldn’t seem to gather the energy to want to go outside anymore. What was the point? It was easier to just lay in bed and wait until he was summoned to do whatever cooking or housework the Dursleys made him do, and accept whatever punishment his uncle doled out, whether it was deserved or not. He was just tired of fighting.

He was tired of everything.

At first, he’d thought the anger and rage would consume him, like it did in Dumbledore’s office. It was hard being back here after knowing how close he’d gotten to being with Sirius forever, with his parents. It wasn’t fair that other kids got families that loved them. He’d been so bitter, so angry, but even Harry knew that that was a mask to wear so that the pain didn’t drown him. He just no longer had the strength for it any longer.

There was only so much heartbreak and pain one person could take, he figured, until the cracks became too deep and it splinted you into a thousand pieces. It was then you began to question what the point even was anymore.

Shifting on the bed, Harry let out a small wince as his various aches flared, rolling on to his front and pressing his face into his lumpy pillow. His glasses dug into the skin around his eyes and the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t care. He had a feeling they’d be broken again before the summer was through anyways. They usually were. He thought he might have some more spello-tape in his trunk with the rest of his school things not currently under his floorboards, but he’d scarcely touched any of that since he first got back to Privet Drive. Even his wand was tucked away underneath there, despite the knowledge that Voldemort would no longer be much in hiding.

He almost wished a Death Eater would try something.

As tempting a notion as it was to keep his face pressed into the material of his pillow until he passed out, once it became harder to breathe, Harry reluctantly turned his head, his glasses now digging into his temple.

Aunt Petunia was out, at some bridge party or something, and Dudley was staying over at a friend’s house that night. Uncle Vernon had left too, though Harry didn’t know where to, not that he cared much. It meant that he didn’t need to cook dinner at least, even if that meant that he wouldn’t be getting dinner either then. He hadn’t had much of an appetite anyways lately, truth be told, and he’d sent Hedwig to stay at the Weasleys’ except when he needed to write his letters to the Order, so it wasn’t like he had to worry about feeding her.

It was for this reason, this expectation that the Dursleys would be gone for some time, that he didn’t immediately pay attention to the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house, or of the car door shutting soon afterwards. In fact, he didn’t pay attention to much anything until the heavy tread of his uncle’s familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs and heading down the hall to his room. He blinked at the sounds of his door locks being undone, but otherwise made no movement.

The door swung open, Uncle Vernon standing there staring in, but Harry didn’t look. Even still, though he couldn’t see it, he could hear the self-satisfied and wicked grin in his uncle’s voice.

“Boy,” his uncle growled, sounding pleased with himself, vindictive spite evident in tone. “Get up. We have somewhere to be.”

Dimly, Harry wondered what would happen if he refused to move. Even when his uncle strode into the room he couldn’t find a fission of the old familiar fear for the gargantuan man. In fact, it wasn’t until his uncle’s meaty hands were on him, pulling him up, and he saw the rope dangling there that Harry belatedly realized that something was very, very wrong.

By then it was far too late.

**********

**_Chapter One – Surprise at Spinner’s End_ **

When he awoke that morning, Severus Snape never could have foreseen the events that would soon be taking place inside his home at Spinner’s End, though he would have gladly wished to avoid it all.

It was a rare morning that the dour man had to himself, and with the knowledge that Pettigrew would be out from underfoot for the majority of the day, he had initially planned to make the most of it. Though his stores were low, he made a decent breakfast for himself, savouring the quiet and peace of having his home once more to himself, and he even allowed himself to linger at the dingy table in the kitchen for a second cup of coffee and the newspaper. In the back of his mind, however, he was already cataloguing the potions he would brew that day, both for himself and for either of his two masters, knowing he’d have several hours before he was plagued by other people underfoot.

Though Pettigrew had been the least atrocious of the Marauders in their youth, it still rankled Severus that he had to house one of them in his childhood home. He wondered if it were some form of punishment, to have one of his former tormentors in his childhood home, or if it were merely to keep Pettigrew away from the Dark Lord and Severus under watch, assuming he’d yet to gain the Dark Lord’s confidences again. Of course, it was a punishment even if it weren’t meant to be, and not just because Pettigrew had been one of his bullies.

No, the worst punishment was that Severus had to house and play nice with the coward of a man who had betrayed his former best friend, and who was one of several reasons for Lily’s untimely death. Every time he looked at the rat (figuratively and literally), Severus was filled with such impotent fury and loathing, and he knew that he’d kill the blithering creature were he at all able to do so.

Instead he had to put up with him, had to feed him, and had to live with the knowledge that he must live another day with the constant reminder of his own betrayal towards the only woman he had ever loved. It was the purest form of torture.

It was one of the reasons Severus so enjoyed these rare mornings and afternoons where he had his house to himself, where he could pretend for just a moment that things were working out okay, and he could enjoy the blissful silence of living alone. Severus had thought that this would be one of those mornings.

He was wrong.

Carefully sprinkling the powdered moonstone into the volatile blue potion simmering on his workspace, Severus was wholly absorbed in his practice, careful in his procedure so as not to damage the draught. He was thus wholly unprepared for the rapid-fire beat on his door as some hapless fool dared to interrupt him, causing his hand to jerk and send far too much moonstone into the potion. The blue turned to a roiling and frothing puce, which Severus quickly banished with a growl.

Who the hell dared interrupt him now? Though his address was (regrettably) well-known, there were few who would dare bother him, even fewer he’d care to answer the door for. The Order knew better than to visit now, of course, what with Pettigrew being in residence, and it wasn’t as though he had any friends amongst the Dark Lord’s ranks. Still. He could hardly take the chance.

With extreme reluctance and ire, Severus switched off the flame under his cauldron and moved towards the front door, doing nothing to cover the extremely displeased expression on his face. Even if he had, it would have been for naught as he flung the door open with an annoyed, “What!”

The two men on his stoop were vaguely familiar, and he was pleased to see them jerk back with their own startled and wary expressions. He wondered if he’d taught them, but no, no former student of his would ever dream coming to his home. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned them, working it out as they gathered themselves.

“Mr Snape,” one of them began, only to be interrupted by a hissed “Professor!” from the other one. The first cleared his throat and shot the second an annoyed look. “ _Professor_ Snape,” he corrected pointedly. “We come seeking audience with the Dark Lord.”

Ah. That explained it, _and_ sparked his memory. Sycophants. Lovely. Still. They could hardly be discussing the Dark Lord out in the open, especially now that said Dark Lord’s continued existence had recently been exposed to the general populace.

“Get in,” he hissed at them, grabbing the shoulder of the nearest one and pulling him forward into his hovel. Albus didn’t pay him nearly enough for this.

Then again, Albus didn’t really pay him anything at all. Unless you counted his continue freedom from Azkaban which, in hindsight, was plenty. Best not rock the boat, as the muggles would say.

Turning to look at the obsequious wizards now in his parlour, Severus noticed one of them seeming to be holding on to something invisible—no, not invisible he determined with narrowed eyes… _disillusioned_. Severus had his wand in his hand instantly and a snarl on his lips, prepared for anything. Or, rather, so he thought.

“Whoa, Snape, easy!” the one not holding whatever the hell it was said, holding up both hands instead. “We mean no harm! We just want to see the Dark Lord is all. We’s got ‘im a prezzie, we do,” he added with a wicked grin.

“The Dark Lord does not come to the beck and call of mere wizards,” he sneered, not bothering to lower his wand at all. “And I assure you, you have nothing he cares for. He has no interest in whatever meagre offering you have. _Should_ the Dark Lord decide to gift those deserving with his Mark, it won’t be toady little nobodies.”

“Eh, who are you calling a nobody—” the second wizard started before being shushed by the first.

“I don’t know, _Professor_ ,” he said with his own sneer, though it paled in comparison to Severus’s own. “I think we ‘ave just what the Dark Lord might like.” He smirked then, turning to his fellow and giving a brief nod.

The second wizard hesitated for just a moment before his own eagerness to reveal their brilliance shone through, and he flourished his wand before sharply cracking it down on what, now that the spell was melting away, Severus could clearly see was a head. The body twitched as it was revealed, messy dark hair that hung almost as limp as his own with oil and what looked like dried blood, followed by an equally dirty and bruised face, with green ey—

_Potter!_

Severus, a spy for nearly half his life and certainly for longer than he’d been an actual Death Eater, let his surprise be known only by a quick blink and slight flaring of his nostrils. His own black eyes stared into the muted green ones (well…green _one_ , as one of the eyes was nearly swollen shut and only the barest peak of green peered out) who gazed almost placidly back at him. His arms were bound, not that his hands seemed to be of any use anyways as more than one of his fingers were bent at odd angles, and the rags covering his emaciated form were just as dirty as the boy, and just as bloodied. Merlin’s drawers, what had happened to Potter?

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me as if you currently had the Boy Who Lived captive,” he drawled, voice betraying none of his terror, and allowed his wand to drop ever so slightly. The familiar green eyes, dulled with obvious pain, watched its movements. Severus took that as a good sign that the boy’s faculties weren’t entirely obliterated, but where Severus would have expected open hostility in his gaze there was none.

The cocky wizard smirked, tugging at the lapels of his robe. “The one an’ only,” he grinned. “An’ we want you to call the Dark Lord so we cans be rewarded.”

The other wizard nodded eagerly, hand not clutching his wand still firmly holding on to Potter’s shoulder. The boy looked pale beneath the dirt, blood, bruising, and swelling, and far too thin. Severus had heard nothing of the boy being kidnapped that summer, and judging by the looks of Potter, this had been going on for a while.

“He will be pleased with your handiwork,” Severus smirked back, mind racing with options. “Just how long have you had the brat, and how in the world did you manage to snatch him from the muggles?” He lowered his wand to his side but did not put it away. Neither of the wizards seemed to notice, and Potter was back to simply staring at him. It was, quite frankly, unnerving. And completely idiotic. Though he was partially gratified to see Potter trusting him to get him out of this mess, it was hardly the time or place lest the other wizards grow suspicious.

“We just got him last night,” the one holding Potter said with a grin. “The muggle just handed him over and everything.”

“He had Potter all trussed up just as you please, ‘e did,” the first one said, reaching out to take Potter’s bruised chin in hand and tilting it this way and that, not that the boy protested. “We had fun all night with the so-called ‘Chosen One,’ and it turned out we ain’t the only ones who can’t stand the bugger. Seems like his ol’ uncle has his own fun before us.”

“Then we had fun with the uncle,” the second one chortled, followed by the first.

Potter shifted then, ever so slightly, an expression that wasn’t quite remorse passing over his face before he let out a small sigh, slumping forward. He didn’t even react when the first wizard suddenly smacked him hard enough to turn his head, though Severus’s grip tightened on his wand.

“How utterly fascinating,” he said with a smile. “You’ve had him all night, you said?”

“Yup,” one of the wizards said, popping the ‘p,’ but Severus was too busy staring at Potter to care which one it had been.

“Lucky, lucky men,” he said with relish colouring his tone. He paused as though in thought. “It must be well-known how much I hate the boy,” he said, glancing back at the wizards. “What do you say to allowing me my turn with the Brat Who Lived?” He saw the wizards hesitating, and smirked. “I’ll make certain to put in a good word for you with the Dark Lord. The two brave _Death Eaters_ who caught Harry Potter, when no one else could, not even Bellatrix LeStrange.”

Predictably, their greedy little eyes gleamed. They looked at each other, mumbling about the pros and cons, while Severus watched Potter for an expression of relief. There as none, which was lucky he supposed, the boy was a better actor than he’d figured, and turned back to the wizards when they seemed to reach the inevitable accord.

“Well now, we wouldn’t want to disturb the Dark Lord before lunch now, would we?” one said.

“No, no, not at all,” the other one agreed.

“Excellent,” Severus said, flashing the two wizards a serpentine grin. “Let’s take Potter to my bedroom, shall we? Don’t want him getting blood on all my books in here, do we?”

Chortling again, the two wizards followed Severus through the passages towards his bedroom, Potter dragged along behind them. He was thankful the two idiots were too stupid to demand he summon the Dark Lord immediately, as well as the fact that they only really knew him from reputation and the one meeting of hopefuls to join the Dark Lord’s ranks, and thus didn’t hesitate to trust he was a Death Eater and only a Death Eater. He may just be able to save the brat’s life yet.

Severus watched, unimpressed, as the two wizards unceremoniously flung Potter to the ground of Severus’s bedroom without a care. He was impressed, however much he wished to deny it, that Potter let out a small grunt and nothing else despite it having to have been quite painful. He eyed the boy’s bound wrists and broken fingers. “Where is the world are Potter’s glasses? And his wand?”

The second wizard shrugged, pulling out the broken pair of glasses from his robes. “He didn’t have his wand. The muggle didn’t have it on him either. Easier work for us.”

For them, perhaps, but not for Severus. He smirked, taking the glasses, and kept the ruse up as he slid them into his own robe’s pocket. “Well, I doubt he’s up for duelling anyways. I’m sure the Dark Lord will be most disappointed. Come, let me pour you two lads a stiff drink in celebration.” As he’d known it would, that cheered the two wizards, and they led the way back to the front rooms. “Does anyone else know you have the brat? His aunt and cousin perhaps?”

The first wizard snorted. Snape considered asking them their names again, but ultimately decided there was no point. They wouldn’t be bothering him anymore soon anyways. “Jus’ us,” he stupidly grinned. “The muggle told no one, and we came straight here once we had our fun.”

“Excellent,” Severus said behind them as they re-entered the parlour. “Then no one will know he’s here. _Obliviate!_ ”

**********

Harry hadn’t known where they were going at the time, but there really wasn’t much he could have done anyways. He felt pain all over, and it was a miracle he was able to get the shaking under control after the repeated bouts of the Cruciatus Curse. Still, despite everything, it had shocked him to have the old door swing open to reveal the ugly visage of his Potions professor.

Right. Well, he’d known that this was it for him anyways once Uncle Vernon tried to sell him to what he’d gathered were Death Eater wannabes, not that it worked out well for Uncle Vernon. He could still hear his uncle’s screams in his ears as he was put under the same curses Harry had to deal with, until finally the wizards had grown bored and ended their muggle torture with a thoughtless Killing Curse.

Then Harry’s _real_ ‘fun’ had begun.

Knowing Snape as well as he did, he knew it was only a matter of time before the man made good on his hatred of the Golden Boy and joined in on the so-called fun. It was why Harry really wasn’t surprised to hear that Snape wanted to get in his own round of curses before calling Voldemort, though he did rather wish he’d have the chance to tell Hermione ‘I told you so’ about the man really being a Death Eater after all.

Thinking of his friends hurt more than him crashing into the floor did, so he quickly pushed such thoughts away. If he was going to die, then he wanted to think about Sirius and his parents, about who he would soon see again, and not who he was leaving behind. That was a pain he really didn’t want to deal with. Everything else could be ignored.

Much like he was, he supposed. He didn’t bother trying to get back up, knowing it was pointless as he’d only return to the floor whenever Snape and the other two wizards returned, and he really didn’t have the energy for it anyways. He just wanted it to be over already. Finally. And for good.

He didn’t know how long he laid there until he heard footsteps returning, though it took him a moment to realize that he was only hearing one pair. He knew those steps well, however, almost as well as he knew his uncle’s. He hoped Aunt Petunia and Dudley were safe. Even if they were awful to him, they hadn’t been quite so awful this summer, and they really didn’t deserve to be disembowelled or anything by Death Eaters no matter what they did to him.

Even with just one good eye and no glasses, there was no mistaking Potions Professor Severus Snape, though at this angle it was hard to read the man’s expression as he stood in the doorway. He was tempted to tell the man to get on with it but refrained. If only just. Instead he simply waited.

It was several terse moments before Snape moved forward, and though Harry might have flinched back at his approaching hands any other day, he just waited for whatever pain they brought. Would Snape get in some muggle torture as well? He supposed that was to be expected. The man’s house was in a muggle neighbourhood, and from what vague recollections he had from their failed Occlumency lessons, he was pretty sure the man’s father had been a muggle.

Except Snape didn’t hit him.

Harry blinked as his now fixed glasses were placed on his nose, letting out a small hiss in surprise as the frames settled over his battered face, especially his nose. He was fairly certain it was broken, or at least very, very fractured. It took a moment for Snape’s expression to settle into focus, and then when it did the expression surprised Harry even further.

Snape did not look gleeful, or vindicated, or even hateful. He was instead staring at Harry as though he didn’t understand him. Well then. At least whatever torture it was Snape was coming up with wouldn’t be boring.

“Potter…” Snape trailed off, which was uncharacteristic enough for Harry to blink again and focus on him once more. The older wizard cleared his throat. “I’m going to take your bindings off. It looks as though they’ve cut off circulation to your hands which may have aided in numbing them, so releasing them may cause you pain. I can’t heal your hands until then, however.”

Heal them? Harry frowned in confusion. That wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Snape’s brow furrowed as he took in Harry’s confusion.

“Potter, are you aware where you are?” He paused, as though a new thought came to him. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that Snape sounded almost urgent.

Harry’s tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, and his throat felt raw from screaming, but there was nothing for it. He cleared his throat, swallowing afterwards in an attempt to get his voice sounding relatively normal before speaking, though it still came out in a rasp. “You’re Snape,” he said, and figured he could be excused for ignoring the honorific at the current time. “I’m guessing I’m at your house. Bit shite, innit?”

A look of relief swept over Snape’s features, oddly enough. “I’ll let that slide just this once, Potter,” he muttered, reaching forward to carefully lift Harry into a seated position before the bonds holding Harry fell away and disappeared. For a moment neither of them did anything, until the feeling began returning to Harry’s abused and broken hands and he fell forward with a sharp hiss of surprised pain greater than the first had been.

 _Bloody hell._ That hurt like a _bitch._

The initial pain was all but ignored, however, when a muttered word from Snape had new pain flaring through Harry’s fingers and up his wrist, his vision nearly whiting out with the intensity of it, and all but fell forward with a gasp. Once the pain began receding however, minus the buzzing like white noise in his hands, Harry realised that he could once more move his fingers.

What the…

“You’re a mess, Potter,” Snape grimaced. “We need to get you out of here before Pettigrew returns. We need to contact the Order.”

“ _NO!_ ” Harry exclaimed, which took them both by surprise. The Order, however, was the last thing he needed. Or wanted. He cleared his throat again. “No,” he said more quietly. “I…can’t.” He couldn’t see them. He couldn’t let anyone else see him either, especially those he cared about. He most couldn’t go back to the Dursleys, not after Uncle Vernon…

Drawing in a shuddering breath, which more than it should have indicating more injuries of the internal nature, Harry licked his lips and did the one thing he never thought he would ever do; he begged Severus Snape.

“Please,” he rasped, weakened by his earlier outburst, in addition to everything else. “I don’t want them to see me like this…please…”

Snape sneered, an air of disgust clouding his expression. “Oh yes, can’t let your fan club see you like this,” he mocked. He reached out with his wand, placing the tip under Harry’s chin to tilt it up, examining him with the same expression. “Finally got too much to bear for your family, did you?”

Harry did jerk a little at that, but he pushed that incorporeal pain away. Of course Snape would take great pleasure in that. He knew as soon as the others told Snape that that the ugly man would use it against him. Harry was well used to his relatives’ hatred of him, however and thank you very much, and refused to let Snape successfully use it against him. He was surprised when Snape’s wand left his chin at his jerk however, and the silence that followed. Glancing at Snape, his expression was closed off now, but there was something swirling in the endless black depths of his eyes again.

After a moment of silence, Harry couldn’t help but ask, “Why would you call the Order anyways?”

“Are you seriously that stupid, Potter, or did you get hit over the head too many times for rational thought?” Snape muttered in annoyance. “Pettigrew will be returning soon, and we need to get you out of here before he sees you and decides to summon the Dark Lord.”

“But…” Harry blinked, at least as well as he could with one swollen eye, and frowned. “But isn’t that what you want?” Hell, at this point in the game, it was almost what Harry wanted too. A few more hours of torture, and then blissful silence, the sort that lasted for eternity. Let the rest of them fight the damn war. He was tired of it all.

“Why in the world would I want that?” When Harry only glanced at his left forearm in answer, Snape let out a dangerous hiss. “How dare you, Potter,” he growled, the air around him practically vibrating with his anger. “Your conceit knows no bounds. After everything, you would dare suggest…” Snape visibly swallowed back his anger, both hands tightening into fists, though his lips were twisted in a hateful snarl. “You are merely lucky that your captors decided to come to my door and not someone’s like Lucius Malfoy.”

Snape stood then, spine ramrod straight, his displeasure and malice still coming off of him in waves. He gave Harry one last hate filled look before turning on his heel and storming from the room, the edge of his robes hitting Harry in the face, the sound of the bedroom door slamming signalling his departure.

Shivering, the cold of the floor finally seeping into his broken and abused body, Harry slumped back over and waited for whatever or whoever was coming for him, knowing there was nothing else he could do. Even if he had his wand, he hadn’t the strength to fight, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He supposed, his lips quirking up at the sudden humour, he could get lucky and anger Snape enough for the man to kill him outright. They could do whatever they wanted with his body afterwards, he hardly cared. At least then he would finally be at peace.

At least then it would finally all be over.

All he had to do…was wait.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yet again I was bitten by a plot bunny (is that phrase still used anymore?) and found myself with a new idea. Like with all my WIP, there is no set update schedule, or anything like that. I will update whenever I am able, and make no promises about timeliness or length. I apologise for any inconvenience, but life happens.
> 
> You can find me at [ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com ](http://ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com)


	2. More Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So this chapter is a little shorter than the previous one, but I really wanted to get something out. School is still going strong and I really don't have time for writing, but I really just wanted to get the second chapter out to show that I'm still here. I'm working in tandem with another fic, and I'm going to try to rotate those two publications, but I hope to get another chapter for this story out soon. One of my classes is only a short-term class and ends in about a month, so I hope to get more time for writing then! Fingers crossed!

_**Chapter Two - More Surprises** _

Harry honestly didn’t know how long he waited for Snape to return. Minutes? Hours? His entire body radiated pain, which in a way numbed him to it, though his limbs did occasionally give out a twitch which sent a fresh jolt of pain through him, all courtesy to repeated exposure to the Cruciatus. Still, things could have been worse, he was certain. And would, undoubtedly, become so once Snape returned to finish him off.

Or…perhaps not?

It was hard to think clearly, his head full of a buzz from his past torture, but Snape had mentioned calling the Order, which wasn’t something a loyal Death Eater would do, was it? He supposed not, but he also couldn’t rectify the image of Snape being anything _but_ a loyal Death Eater. After all, if he was the first one that those idiots brought him to, then surely _they_ had to believe him loyal, and why would they do that unless they had evidence? Harry didn’t even want to think about what sort of evidence that would have to be. Ugh.

Who was Snape loyal to, then? Well, considering the man was the Head of Slytherin, probably loyal only to himself. He supposed then that his own fate was dependent on who Snape thought would aid his personal goals, which could rather go either way, truth be told. In a way, Harry almost hoped that Snape chose Voldemort. He really was just so tired of fighting. He didn’t want to see the Order, didn’t want to have Dumbledore fix him up just to send him right back to the Dursleys, even if Aunt Petunia was a widow now.

The reminder of what happened to Uncle Vernon made Harry spasm again. He couldn’t really bring himself to feel much of anything at the moment, much less regret for his uncle facing the consequences of his own actions, but he supposed that some part of him was upset over his uncle’s death. After all, jerk though the man was, he was Harry’s family. Sort of. It was hard to acknowledge the Dursleys as being related to him. Sometimes he felt more like their house-elf than their nephew or cousin.

Harry tried to make himself more comfortable on the floor, not having the energy to crawl to the bed or anywhere else for that matter, but even without the bindings and broken hands, there was still too much damage to his body for any comfort to really exist. Blimey, but his uncle sure could hit hard. He wondered briefly if Aunt Petunia knew her husband was dead yet. He wondered if Aunt Petunia knew what Uncle Vernon had had planned. Probably not. Uncle Vernon did tend to keep the worst of his punishments to when it was just the two of them. She never tried to stop them, however. Not really.

Pushing those thoughts away, not wishing to fall into that yawning darkness waiting to consume him in misery, Harry finally managed to scoot himself a little ways to lean against the foot of the bed. He wondered if Snape would be angry if he got blood on the bedding hanging over the edge. Though it didn’t look like the bedding was all that clean to begin with. Or maybe it was just old. Now that Harry was looking around, the whole place had a sort of rundown air to it. Bit depressing, actually. No wonder Snape always seemed in a funk.

As though Harry touching his things had magically summoned him, Harry slowly blinked as the familiar footsteps of the potions professor returned, still sounding alone. Well, perhaps Snape didn’t want to do the torturing here. Might get blood everywhere, after all. Though he didn’t know why Snape even bothered to dump him here in the first place. He doubted the man was even more eager to get Harry’s blood on his things in the bedroom than he was in sitting room.

As the door opened, Harry contemplated the knowledge that were it any other day, he’d most certainly be glaring at the hated man as he returned; as it was, he stared at the door almost dully, hardly acknowledging Snape as the man entered. Snape, for his part, paused in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face, before he glanced over his shoulder and swiftly stepped into the room, waving his wand to lock and ward the door once it was fully closed. A small bag was in his hand, a tell-tale rattle of glass bottles inside, muffled though as if they were not the only items.

With a put-upon sigh, Snape knelt on the floor in front of Harry, setting the bag down and opening the small thing, before reaching up to his elbow inside. Of course, Harry knew about wizard space and charmed objects, but the imagery of such a bag reminded him of something else, a far-off memory of a film watched in class when he was very young. He didn’t remember much of the film, he had been barely in school at the time, but he did remember Aunt Petunia swinging a frying pan at his head when he tried explaining the strange things from it to her while she made lunch.

Letting out a small sigh of his own, Harry let his head softly drop against the bed behind him, closing his eyes as he simply waited for what was to come, which wasn’t long in coming. Harry jerked a little when he felt Snape touched him out, though the action was more out of instinctive revulsion towards the man than any great feeling from the moment, and he blinked open his eyes to warily watch the older man who was peering at him with as shrewd a look as ever.

Finally, Snape spoke, nudging at Harry’s hand again where he was trying to pass off a vial of potion. “You need to take this, Potter,” he said, brusque and unforgiving. “It’s far weaker than you undoubtedly need, but it should dull some of the pain. Trust me, you’ll need it,” he added with a familiar sneer.

Honestly feeling more at ease with Snape’s sneers and derisions than the look of what might be considered concern on anyone else, Harry lightly huffed but fumbled with the potion vial. Though he could move his hands now, there were still the occasional twinge of pain, and they weren’t quite as dextrous as they used to be. He didn’t know what the potion actually was as he doubted Snape cared about dulling his pain, but he almost hoped it was a fast acting poison to end this whole mess.

“Are you truly that incompetent, Potter?” Snape huffed, reaching out to snatch the vial back from Harry and deftly uncorking it before shoving it at Harry again. “Save your melodramatics for someone who cares.”

“Oh, piss off,” Harry huffed with a small glare, not having the energy for much else. He avoided Snape’s answering glare at that by quaffing the potion back, gagging at the disgusting taste that actually was sort of familiar. Exhausted by just that small action, his hand fell back at his side, the glass of the vial making a small clink as it rolled on the hardwood floor.

“I would think you would have more care for the man trying to heal you, Potter,” Snape said dangerously.

“Heal me?” Harry scoffed. “Why the hell would you want to do that? I still don’t understand all of this,” he complained. “Shouldn’t you be laughing with enjoyment at seeing me like this?”

Snape’s eyes hardened, and he leaned in close enough for his musky breath to wash over Harry’s face, causing his nose to scrunch up in disgust. “You are nothing but the ungrateful, prideful brat I’ve always thought you to be,” he hissed dangerously low. “I should drop you somewhere and summon the Order immediately and have you pray they are the ones that find you first.” He pulled back, scowling as he plucked up a jar from the bag’s items he’d set out and twisted off the top, causing a pungent smell to waft from the contents within.

“You hate me,” Harry scoffed back, fighting his eyes from closing as a slow and low warmth began spreading through his limbs. It didn’t take away even the majority of his pain, but it did make what he felt a little more bearable as long as he didn’t move around too much. Mostly he just felt exceedingly tired.

“Just because I despise everything you represent doesn’t mean I have any desire to have you beaten to a pulp, Potter,” he muttered. “Especially not by the very people meant to keep you safe,” he added so quietly that Harry wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t imagined him saying that. After all, it sounded nothing like the Snape he’s known for the past five years. “Take your glasses off, Potter. This ointment should reduce the swelling around your eye, though it will do nothing for the bruises.”

“What’s another bruise?” Harry mumbled, but he did sigh and slowly removed his glasses, arms feeling leaden and difficult to coordinate. He squinted at the blurred shape of his hated professor, who was even more out of focus than normal due to Harry’s exhaustion. “You’re sure you’re not just healing me so that you or Voldemort have a fresh canvas to work with?”

Snape hissed. “Potter!”

“Well what am I to think!” he protested. “You haven’t exactly been a figure of care in my life before,” he pointed out. “And those Death Eater wannabes certainly seemed to trust you, and I don’t they’re going to keep this quiet for long,” he grimaced.

Snape let out a heavy sigh, and though Harry couldn’t see it, he was fairly certain it accompanied an eye roll. “I’ve saved your miserable life far too many times to give up on it now,” he growled. “Besides,” he added, and this time Harry was certain it came with a smirk. “Those idiots can’t speak about what they don’t remember. Now stay still.”

Harry frowned, processing all that as he half paid attention to Snape’s approaching hand, wincing slightly as his cold fingers spread an even colder ointment over the swollen flesh around his eye, flinching slightly when Snape brushed against his damaged nose. A coolness did seep into the heated flesh, however, and there was a marked difference in the pain level surrounding his eye.

“You’ll need a few more applications of that before the swelling is fully down,” Snape gruffly stated, wiping his fingers on what looked like a cloth to Harry. “Now let’s see about that nose of yours, before you start looking like Dumbledore,” he wryly said, and Harry couldn’t help a small quirk of his lips at the joke, before he scowled at the reminder of the headmaster.

“So what’s you plan?” Harry asked, blearily eyeing Snape’s wand as he picked it up and pointed it at him.

“First, I am going to fix that nose of yours, and then I think the numbing potion has worked enough for me to start on your ribs. Your ankle looks like it could use a bit of spellwork as well.”

Harry scowled. “I mean about…you telling someone I’m here,” he mumbled.

Snape sighed, lowering his wand for a moment. “I don’t know why you don’t want to let your fan club know, as they would no doubt fawn over you as you so like and be able to much more properly heal you, but perhaps a night’s rest will change your mind.”

Harry didn’t have the energy to protest the fan club and fawning comment, but he did frown as he considered what it meant. So…Snape really wasn’t going to turn him over to the dark lord? That…was frankly disappointing. Harry had rather grown used to the idea of all this ending soon. His only hope was that Snape was lying to give him a false sense of security and would be calling Voldemort soon. He didn’t think he liked the idea of an actually good Snape.

“Steady now,” Snape said, the caution surprising Harry, and then he was muttered a quick spell again and a bright pain flared in Harry’s nose with a soft _crack_ , and then he found himself able to breathe through his nose much more easily than he had before. He grimaced as a fresh trickle of blood dripped down, however, the metallic taste on his lips causing his stomach to roil slightly. Thankfully, however, his stomach was empty as he’d already heaved up what bile he had only hours previously.

“Bloody hell,” Harry grumbled, weakly lifting a hand to wipe at the trail, no doubt smearing it instead by the way Snape scoffed, followed by another quiet spell.

“Take off your shirt, Potter,” he grumbled as Harry carefully slid his glasses back over his nose, wincing only slightly at the tenderness instead of the fierce pain it had been earlier.

Harry froze at Snape’s words, and he squinted suspiciously up at him. He took in the fact that they were in Snape’s bedroom, that he was pressed against Snape’s bed, and that he was powerless against the older wizard currently. However, no sooner had he felt a wave of revulsion and mild panic that Snape’s face turned first a darkened red before paling to white in anger.

“POTTER!” Snape snapped. “Of all the _disgusting_ —”

“I didn’t say anything!” Harry protested, holding up his hands though it took effort to do so. He grimaced, recalculating, before sighing. Right. Definitely not _that_. He dropped his hands, turning his grimace to Snape. “I don’t think I can,” he mumbled in admittance. With the release of pain in his face and the slight numbing of the potion, it was a miracle he was still awake even, especially considering he’d not gotten any sleep the night previous.

Snape huffed. “Must you make everything difficult?” he muttered, which Harry figured was more to himself than to Harry. “Well, that shirt is a lost cause anyways,” he sniffed, lifting and raising his wand. The next second, Harry was shivering as the cold hair of the old house slid over his suddenly bare chest. A sharp intake of breath had Harry looking at Snape in confusion, though the normally dour man’s attention was on Harry’s chest.

Glancing down, Harry took in the welts, bruises, open sores, and burns covering his otherwise pale skin. Right. They’d really done a number to him…Uncle Vernon included. He cleared his throat, which made Snape start slightly and look away for a moment, before grabbing another jar which contained an even fouler smelling poultice inside. Feeling the awkwardness in the air, Harry remained silence until Snape was ready to speak again, which he did after smearing the poultice on strips of cloth from his medical bag.

“I will need to realign and heal any bones that may have been damaged,” Snape stiffly said. “It will no doubt be painful, but I cannot give you any more potion yet. After that has been seen to, I will need to clean and dress your wounds,” he said, indicating the waiting strips of cloth. “Then you will rest.”

Harry wasn’t certain how he felt about _resting_ in front of Snape of all people, but he also knew that he would not be able to resist it for much longer. His limbs and eyes already felt heavy, and a growing part of him really just didn’t care what happened to him anymore. “Okay,” he said slowly instead. He grimaced, forcing himself to sit up a little bit straighter, which caused a sharp pain in his side, causing his breath to catch for a moment before he gained control over the pain.

Snape hesitated, looking like he was going to say something, before sighing and shaking his head. “This is going to hurt,” he warned, before lifting his wand and murmured a long string of incantations.”

Harry jerked as his back snapped into a straight line, the pain from before with his hands paling in comparison to the pain now; his lungs felt like they were on fire, his breath caught in his throat, and his vision whiting out properly now as he felt like his chest would collapse or explode or do something from all the pain. When he became aware again, he was leaning forward against Snape’s chest, struggling for breath as Snape cautiously kept him from collapsing completely. He blinked quickly, mortified at the tears in his eyes, though he knew that they were natural response to the pain he’d been in.

Snape cleared his throat once Harry regained better control of himself, helping him lean once more back against the end of the bed, and Harry was thankful he busied himself with his medical supplies which gave Harry a moment to wipe off his cheeks and compose himself. “Now I need to clean your wounds before I can add the poultice,” Snape warned. “This might sting.”

It did, since Snape used the less patient-friendly spell instead of cleaning them manually, but it got the job done quicker and shortly after he was wrapping the poultice smeared cloth strips over and around Harry’s chest and back; Harry was too exhausted to be embarrassed by being pulled forward against Snape again so that he could reach his back, and it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

Harry lost the battle before Snape finished, and the last thing he remembered was Snape murmuring quietly against him, the gentle vibrations sending Harry into a deep sleep.

**********

Severus grimaced as he felt Potter pass out against him, but it was to be expected, and he was honestly surprised Potter had lasted as long as he had. He hadn’t even needed to slip him a sleeping potion. Though, taking into consideration the absolute mess the boy was in, it was no wonder.

It had been a long time since he’d thought truly about killing a muggle, after a healthy round of torture, but he was hard pressed not to envision it as he took in some of the handiwork of the boy’s uncle. Oh, he knew that the majority of it was from those degenerates who brought Potter to him, but there was no mistaking muggle handiwork. Severus knew it all too well. The fact that Potter’s relatives would stoop so low as to abuse a child in their care…it was deplorable. He knew that Petunia had been jealous of Lily, but to go this far? That lard of her husband was lucky he was already dead.

Severus grimaced at that. Potter was not in the right head currently, but there was no doubt that once he got over his melodrama that he would blame himself for the stupid muggle’s death. As if the boy needed any more guilt heaped on to his far too skinny shoulders.

Speaking of…when was the last time the brat had eaten anyways? Severus had been able to count each of the boy’s ribs, which spoke of longer malnourishment than just this past twenty-four hours. Perhaps even back to Hogwarts. No doubt the boy was feeling bereft after the death of his uncle; a death that would have been entirely preventable had the idiot mutt not rushed into danger, he couldn’t help but think with a slight sneer. And now Severus was left to deal with the mess of the mutt’s godson. Wonderful.

Grimacing, Severus glanced down at the Potter spawn as his head leaned against Severus’s shoulder, his face relaxed for perhaps the first time in a long while. And was he _drooling_?

“Come on, Potter,” he huffed, carefully wrapping his arms around the boy and moving to lean him back against the bed. As much as the idea was unpleasant, he knew he couldn’t leave the boy on the floor, which gave him only one option. Rolling his eyes beseechingly towards the heavens, Snape stood and carefully cast a hovering charm on the boy, thankful that at least the boy seemed deeply asleep. It took only slight manoeuvring to get the brat laid out in Severus’s bed, glassed pulled off and safely set aside on the nearby end table. Looking down at him now, skin pale against the livid bruises, messy dark hair splayed on the pillow, quiet breaths leaving him, Potter looked more like a child than Snape had seen him look before. Except perhaps his first year, smaller than most of his yearmates, eyes still bright with hope and wonder.

Severus knew he still had work to do, and Pettigrew would soon be returning. How he was going to get Potter out of here with that rat around was a mystery, but he knew that he couldn’t risk calling the Order now, even if Dumbledore would have his head later. The way Potter looked now, he had a feeling someone or someones might suggest that Severus himself had taken part in some of it, which annoyed him to no end. However, he couldn’t really blame them, given how severely he’s had to act in his role. And, admittedly, perhaps he’d fallen too deeply into his role at times and reacted more severely than he needed to do so.

What was more troubling, however, was Potter’s attitude. Though the brat had been impertinent, there was something darker underneath, and the man was worried about Potter’s apparent apathy at the thought that Severus would hand him over to the Dark Lord. In fact, he’d seemed almost…disappointed at realising that Severus had no intention of that. The body could heal, Severus knew this, but it was harder to heal the mind and soul. If Potter had been pushed too far over the edge, then that did not speak well for the war effort.

“What am I going to do with you, Potter?” he murmured quietly, watching the sleeping boy for a moment longer, before returning to his medical bag. He had more work to do, more of Potter to heal, and he needed to come up with a plan. And fast.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note, while I suffer from depression and anxiety myself, I am in no way an expert in the field. However, if you or a loved one suffers from suicidal thoughts or tendencies, please know that you are not alone, you are loved, and it does get better.
> 
> [List of International Suicide Hotlines](http://ibpf.org/resource/list-international-suicide-hotlines)


	3. Snape's Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape visits Privet Drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Yes, sorry on the delay, shorter than I would like, but I was honestly having so much trouble with this chapter. But hey, at least it's something. Winter break coming up soon but I still got a lot of classwork which I am wilfully ignoring to publish a next chapter here, so...yolo.

**_Chapter Three – Snape’s Dilemma_ **

 

Severus let out a deep sigh as he dropped into the chair he’d pulled up next to the bed, completely exhausted by his care of the Potter spawn over the last few hours. The brat was still soundly asleep, despite Severus’s ministrations, the memory of which had the man grimacing all over again. He was thankful at least that Potter had slept through it all, as he doubted that the boy would have been too pleased with the thought that his hated Potions professor had seen him in nothing but his pants. Pants which were, much to Severus’s horror, in far too similar a state as his own at that age.

Rubbing his face with tired hands, Severus considered the day’s events. It had started out as such a good day too, he dolefully thought, before those blasted morons had knocked at his door. It wasn’t for the first time that he cursed the fact that his home address was public knowledge for those among the Dark Lord’s influence, as well as the fact that his place was much more easily accessible than someplace like the Malfoys’ or the Carrows’. Not to mention that he was the resident potions master for the Dark Lord, and thus in turn for the Death Eaters when they could get their desired potions nowhere else.

As annoying as the fact that his home was besieged by Death Eaters whenever they pleased, not even including that repulsive rat Pettigrew he was forced to live with, he knew that he had to be equally if not more grateful that it was all so, otherwise who knew what would have happened to the Potter brat. No matter his own feelings towards the creature, he _had_ made a promise, and he had no wish for Potter’s death, or even his torture. Seeing him like this now, broken both body and soul, filled Severus with a revulsion that brought bile to his throat.

Turning his eyes on the boy now, he felt that murderous rage filling him again. He wished he had known the extent of Potter’s injuries before he’d let those idiots go with nothing more than a memory wipe, just as he dearly wished he had been the one to see to the boy’s odious uncle. Severus has used a combination of magic and muggle sponge bathing to clean the boy up, washing away dirt, sweat, and dried blood to reveal pale skin and the startling intensity of the weals and bruises unhindered now by the mask of filth. A few of the wounds had reopened due to the rough treatment Potter had received being taken to Severus’s and had to be dealt with, which thankfully wasn’t outside of Severus’s range of skills, but there were some injuries that would have to wait until Potter was awake.

Severus knew, however, that the body would be the easiest to heal. The boy’s spirit, on the other hand…

Sighing again, Severus leaned forward in the chair, covering his face in his hand, propping his elbow on his knee. Potter worried him. Greatly. The fight that he had come to expect of Potter was out of his eyes, leaving the once vibrant green dull and murky; a look he had only seen once and was now forever burned into his memory as one of the worse of his life. Seeing it now when Potter was very much alive…it was disheartening, and Severus really wasn’t certain how to fix that. He wasn’t a mind healer, he wasn’t even a regular healer, and he didn’t even like the twerp. So how had he become the one needing to handle this?

He should contact Dumbledore. He knew he should. He should ship Potter off to headquarters and let the lot of them take care of the brat, and he should do it now before Pettigrew returned. He had half a mind to do just that, except…

Except Potter had specifically asked for him not to do that. And, truth be told, he had a feeling that being surrounded by those Order idiots wouldn’t help Potter in the long run. Potter wasn’t himself, that much was certain, and being thrust back into his life before he was himself again could have disastrous consequences. There were too many people in that dreaded place to properly watch over the boy, and Severus knew just how much trouble the little bastard could get into when left on his own. The coddling he would receive would be nauseating to witness, and though Severus would normally expect Potter to lap it up just like his father would have, he had a feeling that the Potter laying before him in a borrowed and grossly oversized nightshirt would not handle that practice well at all.

Which left him where?

It had been obvious that Potter had expected Severus to haul him off to the Dark Lord, which was frankly insulting considering how much Severus risked his life on a near daily basis for the little maggot, but what was more troubling was that that had almost seemed like that was what Potter wanted. What could make the boy hero so eager for what would undoubtedly be a most painful and humiliating death at the hands of his parents’ murderer? Severus prayed that it hadn’t been a thoroughly thought out idea for the boy, as he had no idea what to do with a child with suicidal tendencies. While Albus Dumbledore might very well applaud the thought of a Chosen One with a death wish, Severus Snape most assuredly did not.

Which brought to mind the prophecy. Potter was in no form to fulfil it now, even if his body had been in perfect condition, and that did not bode well for the future of wizardkind. Severus especially needed Potter to hold up his end of the blasted thing and come out the victor, as Severus’s very freedom rested on the outcome. Though, Severus had considered the fact that neither outcome would lead to his freedom, considering that the side of the light would have no more use for him and their champion actively hated him. Hmph.

It had not escaped Severus that were he to take Potter to the Dark Lord as the boy believed, especially as he could take sole credit for it, that his esteem in the Dark Lord’s eyes would rise and he very well could take the coveted spot at his right hand. Of course, not once had Severus ever considered it as a possible course of action as he hated the Dark Lord with every fibre of his being and dreamt of his forever death with grim resolve, not could he even contemplate turning over any child to the madman, much less _her_ child. No, despite what Potter and the rest of the Order might believe, Severus had no intention of the Dark Lord winning the war, even if that included giving his life to protect Potter and save the boy’s own for the preferred outcome.

Potter, skin sunken in far more noticeably and appearing even smaller in the large nightshirt, stirred slightly on the bed before falling still, drawing Severus’s attention. Gentle snores followed, however, letting Severus relax that he had not yet woken, and he hoped it meant the boy would continue sleeping undisturbed. He still had to come up with a plan about this, especially since Pettigrew was due back at some point that day. Judging by the twist of Severus’s stomach, it was beyond time for lunch, and he expected Pettigrew by nightfall, or after whatever mission he was currently on was completed.

The thought of lunch brought Potter’s sunken appearance into even starker contrast. When had the boy last eaten? Severus had already felt how thin the boy was but seeing it as he had bathed Potter had brought it home. The boy had been starved, or had starved himself considering his poor mental state, which explained Potter’s weakness. He needed to have an open and frank conversation with the boy, which he doubted would be easy, but most of all he needed to figure out what he was going to do in this precise moment.

Dumbledore needed to know about Dursley. Petunia and her son might not be safe for much longer with Potter missing, and though Severus really couldn’t care less what happened to that horse-faced woman, he knew that he needed her intact to get the information he needed about Potter and the treatment he suffered under their hands. And he needed to find out what had happened to Potter’s wand.

Standing from the chair, Severus stretched with a muffled groan and quiet crack in his back, heading towards the bedroom door with the stealth born from his own childhood and life as a spy, mindful of not waking Potter with any sudden loud sounds. He only breathed easily again once the latch clicked into place, though he shook his head at his foolishness. If Potter didn’t wake while he manhandled him to clean him, then he doubted the boy would wake from a door being opened and closed.

Severus cleaned himself up and relieved himself first, splashing some cold water on his face after to waken him some as his own exhaustion began wearing him down, all while contemplating his next course of action. He couldn’t reveal he had Potter, not yet, but Dumbledore needed to know about the muggle and quickly, before Petunia grew worried or suspicious. It wasn’t as if he could leave Potter on his own, unknowing when the brat would wake up, and equally unknowing just when Pettigrew would turn up. Thankfully the rat knew never to enter into Severus’s personal space, so at least the worry that he would open the door and see Potter was void. And Potter hardly seemed like he was going to be wandering around, for once in his miserable life.

Severus pulled out his wand as he paced the parlour, casting his eyes every so often to the fireplace. Floo powder would make certain Dumbledore was alone, but who knew if such things were being closely monitored now. An owl could be intercepted. Even his Patronus could be overheard by unsavoury participants. It would be the quickest way, however, and less likely for someone other than Order members to overhear.

Unless Dumbledore was dealing with the Ministry’s incompetence now that the Dark Lord’s return was undoubtable.

Groaning, Severus shoved his wand back into his pocket. This may just be something he had to see to in person after all, he thought with a grimace. Potter seemed to be sleeping soundly, and the boy’s injuries and general listlessness made it seem unlikely that the brat would stay put for a little while at least, so if he worked quickly then it was likely he could leave and return without much fuss. As long as he got it done before nightfall, he should be back before Pettigrew returned, and perhaps he’d handle things quickly enough that Potter would remain asleep during the course of his absence. After all, Potter seemed to be sleeping soundly when Severus left the room, so it looked to reason that Potter would continue doing so while Severus was gone.

The problem was, of course, that he Absolutely Did Not Want To Do This.

He hadn’t seen Petunia in person for years and he really would have rather not see her ever, but he had a responsibility to Potter and the damned war effort, and some things were inevitable.

It really didn’t take long for him to prepare, slipping back into the bedroom to leave a note for Potter lest the welp wake up while he was out as well as to pull his rarely worn muggle attire out of the wardrobe to change into in the bathroom, slipping his wand into the long sleeve of the worn button-down cream shirt. Robes were much more practical with their deep pockets, but he hardly wished to draw attention to himself, wizard or muggle alike. At least the charcoal trousers were less restrictive than the jeans he was forced to wear in his youth, and more importantly were not hand-me-downs.

Shaking his head to resist the urge to fall backwards into memories he had no wish to entertain but which were rising from their usual dark depths in the back of his mind due to Potter’s current condition, Severus tied off his uncomfortable muggle shoes and strode for the front door. He dearly would have loved having something to eat, but he was no stranger to long stints between meals even now, and he ignored the upset of his stomach as he locked the front door behind him, furtively warding it against trespassers, and headed for the nearest dark alley from which to disapparate from.

It didn’t take long to reappear at one of the destination points near Privet Drive, ones frequented by the Order in their Potter watching last summer and should have been this summer as well, and then Severus was on his way to one of the last locations he’d ever expected to be. He had, of course, been freed from the obligation of Potter watching due to his status as a spy, but he knew the way to Potter’s home easily enough. While he wished he had a better disguise in case the place _was_ being watched, he didn’t slink or cower or move in such a way as to draw attention towards himself, and before he knew it, he was standing before Number 4 Privet Drive and wishing he were anywhere else.

Well. Almost anywhere else.

Hesitating only a moment, Severus knocked smartly on the wooden door, steeling himself for what was to come. Almost immediately he heard footsteps hurrying to the door, and then an instant there she stood, lips pursed thin, forehead furrowed into wrinkles, and eyes darting to settle on her visitor. Worry was replaced by confusion which was almost just as soon overtaken by agitation and fury.

“ _You_!” Petunia all but shrieked, face turning first a shade of red before quickly paling. “What are _you_ doing here, Snape?” she hissed, looking nervously left and right and over Severus’s shoulder to spot any snooping neighbours.

“I wish to speak to you about your husband and your nephew, and I would rather do so inside your house, instead of airing your dirty laundry for all the neighbours to see,” Severus sneered, the woman’s nervous ticks from childhood having obviously grown with her into adulthood. “You wouldn’t that, would you, _Tuney_?” he mocked.

Reacting as though he had slapped her, Petunia let out a small gasp at the nickname she hadn’t heard in years and took an automatic step back. Smirking at her discomfort, Severus strode into the garishly bright house and tacky decorations, his smirk turning to a sneer as he took in the multiple photographs of Petunia and her family as he walked further into the house—well, photographs of Petunia and her husband and son, at least; there was not a single picture or any other evidence that declared that two boys lived there.

“What are you even doing here, Snape?” Petunia repeated her earlier question, eyes darting nervously towards the stairs as they walked into the sitting room, the electronic sounds of a television (ghastly things, Severus was well pleased to be rid of such monstrosities) coming from the first floor. Her will crumpled a little then, evident to see, and she wrapped her arms around her thin frame. “Do you know where Vernon is?”

Severus almost felt the stab of regret at having to tell any woman that her husband was dead, but the memory of the marks of a muggle beating on Potter’s body successfully squashed any remorse for Dursley’s death. Sniffing, haughty and uncaring, Severus raised a brow. “He’s dead,” he said plainly, heartlessly shrugging.

Petunia’s pale eyes closed painfully, but Severus could detect no hint of surprise or shock in her, only weary resignation and the overwhelming sadness from the passing of a loved one. If anything, it looked merely like Severus had confirmed her worst fears. A few tears from her eyes, a small sob escaping her, but though her thin frame trembled, she kept to her feet and swallowed back her misery. “I know,” she whimpered, raising a hand to wipe at her cheeks, smudges of mascara and foundation marring her skin. With shaking fingers, she extracted a folded scrap of lined paper from the pocket of her apron and handed it over to Severus, looking away as he read it over with lowered brows.

_Pet,_

_Soon all our troubles will  
_ _be over._

_-V_

It was Severus’s fingers shaking this time as he lowered the piece of paper, torn from a muggle notebook it looked like, though his trembling came from a different reason entirely. His eyes snapped with black fire and he took a threatening step towards Petunia while shaking the paper in her face. “Do you have any idea what that monster did?” he hissed at her, face white with livid indignation. “What he did to _your_ nephew!”

Petunia winced, which was his own confirmation, and Severus had to take a step back and turn away before he did something he would regret. And it would have been a lot more vicious than a tree branch. His fingers itched to reach for his wand. Which reminded him that he needed to find Potter’s. He reluctantly turned back towards the horrendous muggle woman.

“Lily would be ashamed,” he hissed, low and dangerous. He pushed aside the thought that she would be ashamed of his own treatment towards her son, knowing that he had a role to play in all of this, while Petunia’s role had only been to love her sister’s son as her own.

“Lily isn’t here to be ashamed,” Petunia snapped back, some of her old fire returning. “I never asked for that brat. I never wanted him. I’d be damned if I let Lily’s freakishness invade my life more than it already had. He was a blight and a parasite and we were better off without him.” This time, it was Petunia who turned away, her bony shoulders drooping. “I never meant for it to go as far as it did…Vernon was like a man possessed…” she murmured quietly. She fell quiet for a moment, before turning her head slightly back over her shoulder towards Severus. “Vernon took him, didn’t he? He took him and did something to him.”

Severus sneered. “What, _now_ you care?” He scoffed. “What your husband did to Potter is of no concern to you now. Potter will never be returning here.” The conviction with which Severus said this startled both of them. He knew, however, that it was true. Even with Dursley dead, he couldn’t in good conscience send Potter back here after everything. Who knew what horrors awaited him in retaliation for Dursley’s murder, not that the boy was to blame for that, of course. Dursley brought it on himself.

“Dumbledo—”

“Dumbledore is not the one you have to worry about right now,” Severus growled, cutting her off. He was tempted to spin her around, pry into her head and see for himself the abuse she inflicted upon her nephew, but Severus also had no desire to see what travesties play out. Whether or not she partook in the physical applications, it was obvious from her home and her speech that she had done everything in her power to make the Potter brat feel unwelcome. As much as he despised the boy, he knew that he had to alter his perceptions of the idiot. Potter had not been coddled in this house, which Severus had to admit should have been obvious to him in hindsight. Lily’s sister had always been a pernicious bitch. Growing up surrounded by such people, it made more sense why Potter would bask in the attention and adulation of his peers and the wizarding world in general now.

Still. It didn’t mean the brat wasn’t spoiled at Hogwarts, always flaunting the rules like his idiot of a father, rejoicing in the fawning adoration of others. It made Severus sick, but a part of him couldn’t blame Potter. After all, hadn’t Severus done the same thing in his own way? Though the school hadn’t prostrated themselves at his feet like they had for both Potters, the older Slytherins had certainly whispered praise in his ear, offering him a fraternity he’d never had before, not even with Lily. Lily, after all, had only been one person, and after being sorted into Gryffindor she had made her own friends and the two friends had little time just to themselves anymore as they grew older. The Slytherins, however, had banded behind him, told him everything he had wanted to hear, and simple been there for him when at his lowest.

Of course, that pesky hindsight also allowed Severus to realize that they had only done so to draw him further into the snake pit, to manipulate him away from the light that shone on Lily and twist his mind towards the dark. By the time he’d realized this, pain searing into his arm as the malevolent force of his new master stood over him, it’d been too late. The Dark Lord promised him something no one else ever had before, and impressionable child that he’d been, young and without role models or guidance after losing Lily to fragile teenage male ego, he’d lapped it up like the good lap dog he’d become.

He’d regretted it almost immediately, however, and had thrown himself into the dark to pretend otherwise. It was why he’d been so happy to overhear part of the prophecy, happy to prove loyal and beneficial to the creature he reluctantly served now, happy to belong _somewhere_ even if he didn’t want to be there. The moment he learned that the Dark Lord meant to target the Potters, however…everything changed.

Growling at himself and shaking himself from the tormenting memories, Severus began pacing again. He needed a plan. He needed to keep Potter’s whereabouts secret until Potter was well-enough to transfer elsewhere, and he knew coming here was dangerous for him from both his masters. Both, he knew, wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of him. He trusted neither of them. Potter would not be safe with either.

Merlin, what was he going to do? It wasn’t like he could just keep Potter. Certainly he’d keep him for now at the boy’s lowest, but once the brat was on the mend he couldn’t continue harbouring him. Imagine what would happen if the Dark Lord found out. Imagine what would happen if _Dumbledore_ found out. He suppressed a shudder at the thought. No, no keeping Potter any longer than strictly necessary was foolhardy and would prove him to be an even bigger idiot than Potter himself. No, he had to come up with something.

Eventually.

For now, however, he had just one goal in mind.

He turned back to Petunia, unbuttoning his sleeve and dropping his wand into his hand. He considered that if things kept happening as they did, then he’d soon give Lockhart a run for his money.

“ _Obliviate_!”

* * * * * * *

Severus watched from the top of the stairs as Petunia made her ethereal way down the hallway to her room for her nap. A nap which, of course, Severus had instructed her to take with a little compelling magic. She wouldn’t remember anything of their conversation, of course, and the paper from Dursley had been burnt to ash and discarded, replaced by a contrived memory of Dursley leaving on a business trip afar, beyond range of electronics or devices, and of Potter having run away, which she wasn’t to care about at all. Weak minded that she was, it wasn’t hard to get Petunia to accept these things, or the suggestion to sleep to get her out of Severus’s hair.

The noise of the television set was even louder here, and though Severus knew he’d have to perform more magic to cover his tracks, he was stopped in said tracks at the sight presented to him. A door. A door which should have been ordinary, but instead was covered with locks on the _outside_ of the door, and an animal flap at the bottom. Judging by his knowledge of muggle houses, he knew that the door could lead to nothing else other than a bedroom. Considering what he knew of Potter’s upbringing here, he had a nasty feeling he knew whose room this was.

Pitiable.

It was a room full of broken things, old toys and devices crammed into a corner, an unmade bed whose covered held puce spots not part of the design. A Hogwarts school trunk was visible, as was an empty cage, and there was a broken quill and crumpled parchment papers on the bedside table. The furniture looked old, worn down, and the air was filled with the stench of unwashed adolescent and owl droppings.

It was…horrifying. It was—

“This is my second room,” a voice said behind him, and Severus spun around with his wand in his hand. The owner of the voice was a boy around Potter’s age except larger, muscular and broad, and though he watched Severus’s wand with trepidation and took several steps back from the doorway, he didn’t flee. Severus recognized him as the once pudgy boy in the all the photographs. Petunia’s son.

“What?” he snarled, only lowering the wand slightly.

Dursley the younger thickly swallowed, tracking the wand, and though his face was waxen, he held his ground and even reclaimed a few steps. “This is my second room. Harry took it over after the letters came, the letters from his school.” With great effort, he visibly forced his eyes up to meet Severus’s. “I threw a big tanty, but the letters knew he was sleeping under the stairs, and my parents were worried we was being watched.”

Under the…stairs?

Oblivious to Severus’s confusion, the boy continued on. “I heard you. With mum.” His eyes filled with tears too, but he hastily brushed them away. “I told dad he should stop. Harry…Harry didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t a waste of space. He was…he was just Harry.” He wiped at his eyes again. “Is he all right? Harry?”

Severus considered the situation. He could always Obliviate the boy later. In fact, that had already been the plan. “Potter is not out of danger, but he is out of immediate danger,” he replied truthfully.

“And you’re helping him?” the boy asked, looking earnest and worried. Worried for Potter? From everything Severus had gathered, this did not seem to make sense with what he had expected.

“What happened here?” he asked instead, donning his perfectly mastered Professor Snape voice. The boy straightened instantly, whether he did so consciously or not.

“Dad went ballistic this summer,” the boy gulped. “I’ve never seen it so bad, and Harry usually fights back in some way, but this time he just…took it.” He grimaced. “This is even worse than when that Cedric kid died.”

Severus blinked. Diggory? Well, he supposed the boy would be traumatized by the return of the Dark Lord, even if he hid the fact later, but this seemed more than that. “How do you mean?” Again, Severus resisted the urge to violate a muggle’s mind. They did withstand it well, and more than one muggle had been rendered little more than a vegetable after a rough round of Legilimency. Some had been at his own hands, during the first war.

“He could cry his name almost every night,” the younger Dursley said, looking down at his trainer clad feet, a note of a flush rising up his thick neck. “I’d make fun of him for it, but…this time he was crying out the name ‘Sirius.’ That was…that was the name of his godfather, wasn’t it?” When the boy looked back up, his expression was remorseful. “He died, didn’t he?” At Severus’s nod, he sighed. “I thought so. Harry just sort of…gave up.”

In more ways than the boy knew, Severus was certain. He lowered his wand entirely, returning to inspecting the room, opening the trunk to see if the brat’s wand was in there.

 “The floorboards.”

Sighing, Severus looked back over at Dursley Jr. “What?” he asked irritably.

“The floorboards,” he reiterated, walking into the room and point at a section of the floor. “Harry hides things under the floor, important things. I saw him putting things away one time, though I don’t think he saw me. Dad and mum didn’t know about it, or else dad would have destroyed everything in there.”

That was actually…rather thoughtful of Potter. It proved his mind hadn’t completely atrophied. Severus hesitated before kneeling to pry up the floorboards in question, keeping an eye on Dursley all the same. The boy had stepped back to lean against the wall, however, and seemed content not to come any closer to the wizard with a wand in his hand. And, speaking of wand…

Potter’s wand laid there, hidden beneath the floorboards, on a book and silvery material item. It took only a moment’s inspection to realise that it was Potter’s invisibility cloak. Success.

With a flick of his wand, the cloak and book floated to the still open trunk and settled inside, as well as the rest of the few measly possessions of wizard origin in the room. Potter’s wand, however, was settled up his sleeve for safe keeping. Standing fully and smoothing out his clothes, Severus turned his gaze back towards the muggle boy. “When you said Potter was under the stairs…”

Dursley sighed, looking forlornly at the ground as he pushed himself off the wall. He stopped midway to the door, however, and turned back to Severus. “When you make me forget like you did mum, can you make certain I don’t forget the way I feel about Harry? You made mum remember something else. Can you make me remember helping Harry escape? Because I really wish I had. I wish I had done a lot of things,” Dursley sighed again, heading for the door once more. “Will you tell him I said sorry? For everything.”

Severus watched the boy as he followed him out of that detestable room, Potter’s trunk and bird cage floating in the air behind him. He had no idea what to make of his visit to this place, no idea what to make of Potter’s cousin, and he had a feeling that Potter wouldn’t either. “Tell me more,” he said instead. “Tell me what your family did to your cousin.”

In the end, Severus would dearly wish he hadn’t asked that.

 _Potter_ , he thought in despair as he stared down into a cramped little cupboard, _what have they done to you…_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to explain a little of the reasoning behind the idiots going to Snape's door (I should probably name them but I've gone this far without it so lol) as well as giving a little bit of Snape's younger thought process as I believe it to be. Also, I'm sure people were probably wanting more confrontation, but Snapey has a lot to process here, his whole world has recently been turned on his head, and he's kind of just taking everything in. Don't worry, this isn't the last we've seen of the Dursleys... ;)


	4. Discussions and Realisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I apologise for the delay for those who have been eagerly awaiting this next chapter, but this one was a little tough to write. I eventually pushed through, however, and ended up not even getting to touch upon everything that I wanted to. So, here's the next chapter of our awkward boys trying to communicate.

**_Chapter Four – Discussions and Realisations_ **

When Harry woke, it took a moment for everything to catch up to him, and he was momentarily surprised, startled, and suspicious at finding himself in an unknown bed. However, the events of the day slowly returned to his mind, and with it a mixture of feelings…as well as a realisation that, though still pained, it was a pain duller than he would have expected.

With a quiet groan, Harry took stock of his situation. He felt various bandages wrapped around him, and his skin didn’t feel as sticky or gross as it had been, and some of his aches and pains were actually fully gone. He was also, he realised in mild dismay, clad in a worn, large nightshirt that was most decidedly not his own. Snape, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. He grimaced, attempting to sit up, and noticed the blurry shape of his glasses on the bedside table. Reaching for them, he couldn’t deny a small thrill of pleasure at being able to do so without excruciating pain shooting up from his fingers and through his arm, and he relaxed slightly when his vision cleared once his glasses were carefully set in place. It was only then that he noticed a vial of potion on the bedside table, as well as the tent of cardstock propped up with his name on it in all too familiar script and green ink.

_Potter_

_Should you awaken before my return, I’ve set aside_  
a potion for your pain.  Take it . _I have no desire to_  
_return only to find you bemoaning your pain like a  
_ _child._

_When I return, we will discuss what is to be done_  
_with you. Stay in bed and don’t touch anything, or_  
else you  will regret it. Severely.  
  
_S. Snape_

Harry quietly huffed, tossing the note back on the bedside table. Had he felt more himself, he might have scowled at Snape’s unnecessary and supercilious words, but he felt drained of almost everything. Except, he realised, potent humiliation as he recalled more of the previous…what day was it? It didn’t matter. Had he really fallen asleep against Snape of all people? Going by the taste in his mouth and the dry feeling at the corner of his lips, he figured he did a bit drooling too. Wonderful.

He contemplated the potion. He wondered what sort of severe consequences Snape would enact at his failure to comply. If Snape was healing him, then surely, he wouldn’t hit him? Though, Snape had a nasty temper, and it wasn’t like Harry hadn’t nearly driven him that far before. After a moment of indecision, Harry reached out and plucked the vial from the table next. Pain was inevitable, he knew, followed by the peaceful release of death, so he really shouldn’t care one way or another. Part of him didn’t. Even still, he had to admit that it felt nice to be without some of the pain of his past torture.

 _Yuck_.

The potion tasted just as horrible as they usually did, but it was a familiar taste from his times in the infirmary at school, so at least the vague wonder of if Snape were really just trying to poison him was unfounded. He was a little regretful of that; poison would have been an interesting way to go. Would it be slow-acting or swift? Would it be painful, make him sick up his guts? He figured Snape would probably give him one like that, if he poisoned him. He wondered if Snape could make poison taste like other potions to hide it? Maybe. He may hate the bastard, but he had to admit that the man was clever and talented at what he did. Git.

As the potion seeped into his bloodstream, however, Harry could feel his overall pain diminish some, leaving a sort of lethargy to his limbs and muscles. Settling back into the pillows for lack of anything better to do, Harry closed his eyes, still loosely holding the potions bottle as his thumb brushed over the rim. He thought, if he let himself, he could probably fall asleep again. First, however…

What was Snape’s game?

Snape was in the perfect position to deliver him to Voldemort. Harry had never really doubted his conviction that Snape was loyal to the dark wizard, but the man had seemed genuinely offended at Harry’s saying so earlier. Had he been wrong this whole time? _Was_ Snape loyal to Dumbledore after all? Ugh, he hoped not, if only because Hermione would get that annoying ‘I-told-you-so’ look on her face.

The thought of Hermione sent a sharp pain through him that no amount of pain-relieving potion could alleviate. He’d tried not to think about his friends too greatly this past summer, and especially not recently when he was so ready to just give in. He didn’t like to think about leaving them behind, but the path he was interested in wasn’t a path he wanted them to take with him. They were different. They had family, someone to genuinely miss them if they were gone. Sure, he knew his friends might be upset at first, but they’d get over it. He’d only known them for five years; they had several years to make new friends and have new experiences, and they also had each other.

Though, he supposed that if someone else didn’t pick up the reins against Voldemort, that they would soon join him anyways. He supposed that that was just another part of inevitable pain and death. Things would be better for everyone then, at least; no more pain or loneliness. No more regret.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It wasn’t like Harry was specifically looking out to kill himself, of course. He wasn’t purposely looking to do himself in, he just didn’t care anymore if it happened to him. What was the point in anything anymore? You fight and you fight and you fight, losing people you care about and love along the way, and for what? Whether it’s tomorrow or a hundred years from now, you’re still going to die. What does it matter when it happens? All the pain and suffering along the way would be over, so what did it matter what happened to him in the meantime? None of it mattered anymore.

He wished Snape _had_ poisoned him, just so that it would all be over finally.

He really didn’t know what to think about the wizard. What _was_ Snape’s game plan? Harry reluctantly ruled out Voldemort, so what? He hadn’t informed Dumbledore where he was at as far as he knew, and he didn’t think it was just because he’d ask him not to; when had Snape ever cared about what Harry wanted? No, there had to be some nefarious reason for it all. Added on to Snape healing him. He certainly hadn’t expected that. He figured it could be that some of his injuries were too dangerous to leave unattended. He remembered as a kid being pushed down the stairs by Dudley and feeling a sharp pain in his side, much like he’d felt earlier when Uncle Vernon’s foot collided with his ribs. Aunt Petunia had said something about a potential rupture while poking at his sore side, but it was only a moment later than his side felt warm and then there had been barely any pain at all, almost as if the fall hadn’t happened in the first place.

Since she’d been relieved not to have to take him to hospital, he really didn’t understand why he had to stay in his cupboard for nearly a week after that.

Perhaps Snape just wanted to heal the worst of it all, make certain Harry wasn’t going to croak on his hands, before dealing out his own punishment. Get a few smacks in, maybe a couple curses (Unforgiveable or otherwise), before dropping him off at Dumbledore’s feet with a “sorry, found him that way” before swanning off. That seemed more likely than anything else, now that he thought about it. He was certain that was Snape’s plan, it had to be. It was the only reason why Snape hadn’t dumped him at either of his masters’ feet yet, surely.

Ugh. Harry groaned, pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes with his free hand. All this circular thinking was giving him a headache—though he was certain Snape would say any thinking would give him a headache as he was unused to the practice. Jerk. Though, just like everything else, Harry couldn’t find the strength to truly hate Snape anymore. He couldn’t find the strength for nearly anything. He just didn’t have the energy it took to feel such strong an emotion any longer.

Sighing, Harry pushed his glasses the rest off the way off his face and tossed them on the bed while carefully curling up into a comfortable position. So. His uncle was dead. That was…unfortunate. He felt badly about that, of course he did, but it was also part of the whole ‘not having enough energy to care’ sort of thing. He’d been beaten and tortured. What else was new? He was in Snape’s house, in Snape’s _bed_. Okay, that was definitely new, he had to admit. If he had more energy, he figured he’d probably be exploring right about now, snooping in his professor’s pants drawer and his things. Snape had healed him. Snape hadn’t given him to Dumbledore or Voldemort yet…unless that was where he was at right now. Snape was still an unmitigated arse, but that _definitely_ wasn’t new. So where did that leave him?

Christ, he wished his uncle, or those morons, had finished the job. Or that Snape soon did.

Harry sighed, the lethargy of the potion growing, drawing him back to sleep. He was just tired. So bloody tired of it all…

* * * * * * *

The next time Harry woke, he was not alone.

The blurred and dark shape of a person sitting in the car next to the bed startled Harry ever so slightly, but besides an initial and instinctual tensing of his muscles, he otherwise did not react beyond blinking several times until the vague shape of his professor focused more. He cleared his throat, a brief wave of embarrassment at finding himself in this predicament cresting over him again, until he settled once more into his apathy. Though, the embarrassment flushed through him again when he realised that he was still clutching the potion vial, and that somehow while he was sleeping, he’d come to be cradling it against his chest. He doubted the ever-observant potions professor missed that.

Dropping the vial, Harry patted his hand around on the bed looking for his glasses, jerking only slightly when Snape wordlessly held them out to him. Wishing he had the energy to scowl, Harry took them and placed them on his face again. It was only then he could peer clearly at Snape, ignoring the shoot of pain along his nerves as he carefully sat up against the pillows and headboard, taking care to keep the old blanket fully covering him. Snape…was confusing him.

Harry had expected a scowl, a glare, any look of annoyance, especially after the note the man had left, but Snape looked…uncomfortable, almost, and it seemed almost like the man was refusing to meet his eyes. Which was preposterous, of course, as that made absolutely no sense. However, though Snape’s lips were turned down, it did not seem to be a frown of anger or aggravation. He looked paler, as well, though perhaps that was merely the lighting of the room. Snape’s hands were curled into fists in his lap, meanwhile, and…was he wearing muggle clothing?

“Professor?” Harry croaked before clearing his throat to try again. “Professor, what’s going on?”

Snape jerked this time, and though his gaze roamed over Harry’s face, he still avoided direct eye-contact. His lips, as well, thinned as though with displeasure but it did not seem to be directed at Harry for once. After a beat of silence, Snape drew in a deep breath. “Potter,” he began, paused, shifted in his seat, sighed. Had Harry the energy for it, he might have felt worried or disconcerted at the uncharacteristic actions of his professor. As it was, he merely smoothed the covers over his lap and waited for whatever new hell was on its way to him. “Potter, we have much to discuss.”

Even in the mood Harry was in, he could tell that that would not be a fun conversation. Or one he was at all interested in having. He considered rolling his eye before ultimately deciding that that would just take more effort than he wanted to exert at present. “What is there to discuss?” he sighed. “Just do whatever you’re going to do to me and then call Voldemort or Dumbledore or whoever it is that you’re dumping me with.”

Despite the lack of general care that Harry had for anything just then, he still jumped slightly when Snape’s hand slapped down hard on the armrest of the chair, swallowing as Snape leaned aggressively forward. Normally such bluster and hostility wouldn’t have bothered him, but with much of the pain he had been in either gone or mellowed with the remnants of the potion Snape had given him, Harry found his mind clearer than it had been for a while. Not enough to really care what happened to him or anything, but enough for the instincts bred inside him to trigger. This time he did scowl, though at himself.

Snape, meanwhile, hesitated at the flinch from Harry, before grinding out his words with clear distaste. “Potter,” he snarled, “make no mistake that I am giddy with joy at the thought of you no longer wasting my time and getting your sorry excuse for an arse out of my bed and out of my home, but I refuse to spend one more second belabouring the point of my allegiances.” Harry’s mouth dropped open slightly at the use of the professor’s swear word, shocked right through and past his apathy. Well then. He supposed part of him might have been hurt at the harshness of the rest of Snape’s words, had he been feeling more himself, but truly he was far too stunned at the thought of the professor actually cursing at him. Cursing him magically, perhaps he could see, but cursing _at_? Astounding. But Snape continued.

“While I would gladly _dump_ you at the headmaster’s feet in an instant, there is still the matter of your injuries, as well as your vehement rejection of the idea earlier.” Snape’s eyes narrowed at him, though Harry was cognisant enough to realize that the man was still avoiding direct eye-contact. The random thought rather annoyed him, actually, reminding Harry of Dumbledore the past year. The brief flare of anger felt good to Harry, who hadn’t felt much of anything since summer began. “The fact of the matter, Potter, is that you’ve put me in a difficult position, one I would much rather not be in, yet here we are,” Snape drawled sarcastically.

“Just let me leave then,” Harry replied in what wasn’t quite a huff. “Take me back to the Dursleys.” Which was something Harry _never_ thought he would say. Uncle Vernon had been the main aggressor in the house, especially after Dudley had started ignoring him, and he was gone now. He considered the fact that Aunt Petunia and Dudley might pick up the slack now, seeing as how Harry had caused Uncle Vernon’s death like he had so many others, making him wonder if they’d finally snap and just kill him. That would be ideal. A few solid smacks of his aunt’s frying pan might just do the job.

Harry had been unprepared for the snarl from Snape at that suggestion. “I think not,” Snape said, voice dripping with venom. “Even with that oaf—” Snape cut himself off, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair as he looked away. A strained silence filled the space between them for several moments before Snape cleared his throat again, as though gathering the courage to speak. When he spoke, his voice had a stilted calm to it, his face devoid of the emotions Harry typically attributed to him in a blank mask. “I spoke to your aunt, Potter, when I returned to your home in hopes of acquiring your things.”

Harry blinked as he noticed for the first time a very familiar trunk and empty bird cage at the foot of the bed. Snape…had gone to Little Whinging. More to the point, he went to Number 4 Privet Drive. Several thoughts passed through Harry at that moment, far too many to focus on just one, so he let the white noise of them wash over him. Okay. So that happened. He looked at Snape anew then. The avoidance of his gaze suddenly made sense, and yet it also didn’t. Surely if Snape had discovered the Boy-Who-Lived’s living conditions he’d take the opportunity to harass Harry with it all. Perhaps the man was merely biding his time.

He supposed he should be more humiliated than he currently was. Honestly, one of the most embarrassing aspects was the whole cupboard and bars things, and he doubted Snape had any reason to know about those. Well. The cat flap was pretty embarrassing, objectively. If Snape went to retrieve his things, then he most likely saw his room with all the locks on the door. No way he’d miss the flap then. Hm. Snape wouldn’t have known about the loose floorboard. He wondered if he cared enough about his wand. Voldemort’s twin. Probably not. Although, the invisibility cloak and photo album would be missed more.

Still. With any luck, they soon wouldn’t matter anymore either.

“I can’t expect Aunt Petunia was too happy to see you, sir,” Harry observed. Snape’s muggle clothing finally made sense, at least. He was surprised the man hadn’t changed immediately back into his wizarding robes upon arriving home.

Snape’s expression turned twisted with dark satisfaction. “No, she certainly wasn’t,” he all but purred. Shaking his head, Snape seemed to regain his focus. “Certain matters became clear to me, Potter, and it was decided by all involved there that you would not be returning to those premises again for the foreseeable future.” The way Snape said ‘foreseeable future’ sounded more like ‘ever’ to Harry, causing Harry to study his potions professor with a little more attention. He was uncertain how to take that.

“What about my mother’s protection?” Not that Harry truly cared. Protection was the last thing he wanted at that moment, but the blood wards had been Dumbledore’s reasoning for Harry to return to that hellhole every summer. It wasn’t like it was Aunt Petunia who had died—though he supposed Dudley technically counted and could ground the wards if necessary—so there really wasn’t any reason why Harry shouldn’t return. If Snape took Harry to Dumbledore, Harry was positive the man would just take him right back to Number 4 without a second thought.

“Your mother’s protection only protects you from dark wizards,” Snape said flatly, another impassive mask sliding over his features. “It does not protect you from the very real evil within those wards, as evident by your uncle easily taking you out of them. Or what occurred to you before then.”

Harry failed to see how that mattered. “My uncle is dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I doubt my aunt would try to sell me off. I think she’s scared of Dumbledore.”

“If only your uncle had been so smart,” Snape sneered. “And it’s Headmaster Dumbledore, Potter,” he seemed to automatically snap without any real heat.

Shrugging, Harry had to agree with the first part. As for the second, he didn’t think it really mattered anymore. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t return to them, then,” he pointed out, ever hopeful Aunt Petunia would finish what Uncle Vernon started.

“No reason?” Snape scoffed in disbelief. “I saw your room, Potter.” He looked as though he was going to add to that, before shaking his head. “It was exceedingly obvious she partook in some of your maltreatment, even without your cousin’s testimony.”

“Dudley?” Harry couldn’t make that out. Why would Dudley say anything? Even he wasn’t that stupid to blab about what went on in their home. He’d done it once when they were younger and just starting school, and Harry remembered the trouble that had brought. It was decided that Dudley was just joking, of course, and Harry had been threatened quite severely to never try to say anything like that again. Dudley had been told that it was special treatment that couldn’t be discussed outside their home, and surprisingly he’d never told anyone of importance again. The ones he had told a bit of it to, his friends who partook in Harry Hunting, thought it great fun. Especially Piers.

“What did you do to him?” he asked more out of curiosity than concern. He was surprised his cousin had spoken to a wizard at all, truthfully.

“Why do you think I did anything to your cousin?”

“Because he hates wizards,” Harry replied easily. “And he’s scared of them.” With good reason, he supposed. He probably wouldn’t forget traumatizing surgery to get a magical pig tail removed either. “Did you hurt him?”

“Unlike your appalling relations I do not go around abusing children, Potter!” Snape snarled.

“Physically, at least.”

That had perhaps not been a wise thing to say. Snape’s snarl then went feral, and this time he didn’t just lean forward but actually jumped to his feet and came just shy of jabbing Harry in the chest with his pointed finger as he leaned in close enough that spittle flew from his mouth to hit Harry in the face. “Of all the insolent—” he started, face flush with fury.

Harry, meanwhile, jerked again in automatic reaction, and this time the stab of pain in his nerve endings had his own face drained of all colour as he twisted to get away. A short gasp of pain left him, reminding Harry that while his lacerations and bones seemed to have been healed, his body was not yet fully recovered from deep muscle aches and the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. Even with the potion he had taken earlier, the sudden movement brought with it sudden and painful discomfort. He’d almost started taking the dull ache for granted.

“Potter,” Snape breathed, hovering where he’d bent over the bed with what could only be described as a horrified expression on his face. When next he spoke, however, there was a bit more of a snap to his tone, though it didn’t sound nearly as forceful as it normally did. “Potter! Stop this incessant movement at once. You’re going to agitate the injuries I spent far too long healing already.”

Harry was honestly quite annoyed at himself. He really needed to stop flinching. He didn’t know why a little healing and pain potion resulted in such a reaction, especially since he was all but expecting something from Snape and had been since first showing up on his doorstep. He drew in a deep breath, slowly letting it out as he righted himself against the pillows once more. “I’m fine,” he said, though the ebb of pain was slow in dulling again.

“Further discussion can wait,” Snape muttered, sounding almost like he was speaking to himself, and then he was drawing out his wand. “Now that you’re awake, I’d like to see to re-examine your injuries, Potter. These next few minutes may be uncomfortable to you, in more ways than one.”

Though Harry wasn’t really all that scared of Snape’s ire as he doubted the man could do anything that hadn’t been done to him already, outside of certain practices he doubted even Snape was capable of, he still decided that it was on the better side of caution not to make any remark about Snape enjoying the next few minutes. He might have a vague death wish, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t know why Snape was able to draw such reactions out of him when his uncle and torturers hadn’t been, though he supposed that there was a special sort of animosity between him and the potions professor.

The next few moments were borderline on awkward for Harry as Snape helped him down into a more supine position, tossing the covers off of him so he was covered only in the threadbare nightshirt he was wearing. He dearly hoped he’d be able to keep that on, though the way Snape was eyeing it put that hope into question. He staved off any immediate action by asking, “What are you going to do?”

Snape sighed, looked quite put-upon, despite Harry’s question being quite a simple one, or at least so Harry thought. “Your topical injuries were easily healed or mended without disturbing you while you slept, however I need to make certain that the bones I healed remain so and that I did not miss any before you passed out. As well, it was made apparent that there were some poorly healed injuries from your past that…may need to be reset. I would guess your accidental magic worked on you when you were younger, but for whatever reason, that is no longer the case.”

Harry considered that. He supposed since he stopped caring if he died that his instinctual magic also stopped reacting to his injuries. “Whatever you’re thinking, it really wasn’t that bad,” he began to lightly protest. At Snape’s darkly incredulous look, he lifted a hand to try to forestall the other wizard. “This summer was different,” he pressed. “Usually they just…ignored me.” He supposed there was no since in denying what had happened if Snape had spoken to his aunt. The man had also learned about his uncle through those idiots who captured him, so there was nothing for it. Snape would ridicule him whether he had all the details or not. “They might have struck me a few times before, though it was never like it was this summer.”

Snape gave him such an unamused look at that that Harry blinked in mild shock. “You’re an idiot, Potter. You should have told someone the very first time those muggles touched you.” Snape said ‘muggles’ as though it were a swear, which was a bit rich considering the fact that Harry was fairly certain the man’s own father had been a muggle from the brief glimpses in the man’s mind he’d seen. Though, what he’d seen hadn’t been at all pleasant, he now recalled…

“They made certain I knew not to do so,” Harry said flatly. “Besides, the teachers at my primary school thought I was a troublemaker due to my cousin and his gang, so they didn’t listen to me much. It wasn’t like Dumbledore would have allowed me to leave them anyways,” he pointed out. Snape looked like he was sucking a lemon.

“I sincerely doubt he would have let you remain there if he knew the extent of their behaviour towards you,” he argued, but even Harry could tell that there wasn’t full conviction behind the words. “And that’s Headmaster Dumbledore to you, Potter.”

Shrugging as well as he was able laying down, Harry didn’t offer much of an argument. The blood wards were more important, after all, no matter whatever fantasy world Snape was living in currently. Instead, he turned the conversation back to something he’d been thinking on since Snape mentioned it. “Shouldn’t the Skele-Gro I took in second year have taken care of my…past injuries?”

“Tell me, Potter, do you even read your school books, or are you hoping to coast by on Miss Granger’s robe tails and your fame?” Snape sneered, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Skele-Gro does not _mend_ bones, you idiot child, it regrows them. If anything, that blasted potion would have caused further growth and build-up over the poorly set bones, potentially causing even worse damage than there was to begin with. This will have to be remedied, which, as I stated, can be quite painful. You would think you of all people would have known this, considering that it was your forefather who invented the potion in the first place,” the professor added with a roll of his eyes

Harry froze at that. Forefather? His ancestor had created Skele-Gro potion?

Snape caught Harry’s expression and released a heavy sigh. “Linfred of Stinchcombe, Potter, read a book,” he huffed. “Your paternal family line was not unknown to produce competent potioneers, much as might surprise you considering your own lack of aptitude in the practice. Your grandfather, Fleamont Potter, invented the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion your friends have made liberal use of over the years. Something his son and grandson should have taken great advantage of,” he added in a tone of low disgust as he glanced at Harry’s hair, made even worse by the grit still wearing it down and having slept in it.

Harry had several thoughts rushing through his head at that time, however, to care what Snape thought of his hair—one of which being what kind of name was Fleamont—but he couldn’t bring himself to mention any of them. Harry knew next to nothing about his family, either muggle or wizard, but the fact that his father’s family might easily be found out had never really occurred to him until just then. All he knew was what some of them looked like, thanks to the Mirror of Erised, and that was only if that were accurate and not merely an imagined concept of their appearances.

And how humiliating that Snape of all people knew more about his family line than he did. He wondered if Snape would bring that up if Harry pointed it out to him. Probably. The git. He considered the possibility of learning more about his family now, only to eventually push the thought away. There was no point. He would, with any luck, be dead soon and then nothing would matter anymore. If such a thing as an afterlife actually existed, then he would be able to find out for himself who his family was without the trouble of research…or asking Snape any questions.

If, for whatever unfortunate reason, Harry made it past the summer and returned to Hogwarts, then he supposed he could always ask Hermione about the Potters. She would no doubt love the research.

“Enough of this pointless chatter,” Snape snapped, shaking his head and raising his wand. “Prepare yourself, Potter, this isn’t going to be fun for you.”

Snape barely gave Harry any time to process his words before a cold draft informed him that the nightshirt he’d been dressed in had vanished, leaving him only in his pants and bandages for Snape’s inspection. Before Harry had a chance to react to that, Snape was muttering spells under his breath, his wand moving over Harry’s exposed body. The tip of Snape’s wand jerked over various points of Harry’s body, though thankfully it had only been a few locations. One of which was Harry’s ribcage, exactly the spot where he’d been hurt falling down the stairs all those years ago, he recalled after a moment’s recollection.

Snape did not look happy. Harry honestly had no idea why he even cared to go through all this trouble in the first place, but then he thought back to Snape admitting that he was in a tough spot by Harry asking not to be handed over to the Order. Was Snape truly not going to turn him over? That seemed inconceivable to him that Snape would take any of Harry’s desires to heart.

“Sir?” he asked after a moment of silence when Snape was finally done muttering spells. Snape gave him a sardonic look, but it also looked troubled. “What are you going to do?”

Sighing, Snape rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “There are five locations that will need to be rebroken to set them properly. Once that has been taken care of, we will need to see about the damage done to you by curses. You’ve developed a faint twitch in your fingers, no doubt due to an extended period of time under the Cruciatus. The signs are quite unmistakable.” Harry watched Snape when he said that. While he didn’t doubt that Snape had experience with casting the curse as a Death Eater, he doubted that anyone lived long enough to experience those symptoms, not without going mad first. Snape’s expression told of other memories, however.

“I thought there wasn’t a cure for the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse,” Harry said, knowing for well that he was opening himself up to being called an illiterate idiot again. Surprisingly, however, Snape took his comment genuinely.

“There isn’t, technically. Not one that cures what you’re thinking of. However, the shaking can be treated by potions if the symptoms are not too extreme. The sooner the potions are administered the better.” Snape straightened his posture. “We need to see to these ill-healed bones first, however, and then we can begin your regimen of potions. It would be wise to keep you under closer observation as well, as these potions are…experimental.”

Harry considered that. The fact that the potion wasn’t certified would have been cause for concern for anyone else, but besides his indifference to what horrors might possibly await him, Harry was also able to hear more in Snape’s tone than he might otherwise have. The pure hatred he had once felt for Snape wasn’t nearly as strong as it used to be due to Harry’s disregard for his own life now, and it allowed him to understand things a little bit better now that he wasn’t blinded by his hatred. Harry doubted that Snape would use an unknown experimental potion on him, unless the goal really was to kill him, which…didn’t really seem like the case anymore. Regrettably. So…the potion most likely wasn’t unknown. Which meant that Snape was either the mastermind behind the invention, or at least very well known with its creation. The fact that this was the first Harry had heard of such a potion meant that is was no doubt unknown to society as a whole.

Which left him at the first option. Snape had invented it. He couldn’t publish the invention, of course, not with Voldemort’s calling card branded on his forearm. He doubted Voldemort would be too happy about such a potion. So, Snape had reason to use the potion personally. Thinking back, Harry could recall a few times over the past year, after holiday with no classes, that Snape seemed to have a tremor in his hand.

Oh.

Harry glanced up at Snape again. It was the most thought he’d put into something since…well, since the summer began, really. And he supposed it made a lot of sense. He knew that some of the Death Eaters had deserted and that Voldemort was less than pleased with that. He also knew that Snape hadn’t returned to Dumbledore’s side until after Harry returned with the Goblet and Cedric’s body.

The memory of Cedric’s lifeless eyes sent a sharp stab of pain and remorse and guilt through Harry, but he pushed it away to ignore. It didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered. Harry would apologise in the afterlife, if that did indeed exist. Until then…

Snape would have been late to meeting with Voldemort, but he had to have felt the summons. Voldemort most likely was not pleased. With Harry having escaped, he was more than likely downright murderous. It had been a risk for Snape to return to Voldemort, he realised; there was no telling if Voldemort would forgive him or kill him on sight. What did Snape have to do to convince Voldemort of his loyalty?

His false loyalty, Harry was very reluctant to admit.

Snape, no doubt, had invented this potion out of pure necessity. To spy for Dumbledore. Damn.

“Potter, stop this wool-gathering, I’m about to begin,” Snape’s harsh voice broke through his thoughts. “Ready yourself.” At Snape’s words, Harry barely had a moment to focus on what was happening before Snape whispered a spell, spiralling and slashing his wand. Pain erupted in Harry’s ankle—the same ankle that occasionally hurt during the really cold months, he absentmindedly realised—sending white hot agony through Harry with another _crack_. Harry clenched his eyes and jaw shut tight as the pain radiated up his leg as his bone was rebroken.

Almost in the same breath, however, Snape continued the incantation and the warmth of knitting bone flew through Harry’s leg next, leaving the now familiar feeling of a healing spell. Without pause, Snape repeated the spellwork four more times, and each time Harry took the pain without little more than a grunt, though tears did leak from his eyes. By the time Snape was finished, Harry was bathed in sweat, his jaw aching fiercely and crescent moon marks from his nails sluggishly bled in his palms.

As the pain ebbed away into a dull ache, Harry let out a choked breath. “Motherfu—”

“I would not finish that phrase were I you, Potter,” Snape sternly began, cutting him off. There was a sound of movement, and then an arm was slipped under Harry’s shoulders carefully lifting him up to a seated position. “Here, drink some water.”

Harry reluctantly opened his eyes to see Snape holding up a glass of water to his lips. Grateful for it, Harry clumsily tried to take hold of the glass, but his hands were shaking even worse than before, and he was mortified that Snape off all people carefully helped him drink. Water sloshed on to his chest and bandages regardless, but the water felt good he had to admit, especially since he couldn’t recall drinking or eating anything since the Dursleys’. As if to emphasise that fact, Harry’s stomach let out a growl as the water hit it, the cramps he was used to ignore tensing all over again.

Harry flushed at that, annoyed at himself for showing weakness in front of Snape, and also at his body for demanding something he hadn’t cared about in a while. What was the point in eating? It only staved off the inevitable.

After a moment’s silence as Harry fought to regulate his breathing and wiped at the tear tracks from his eyes, Snape cleared his throat, looking almost as uncomfortable as Harry felt at what just occurred as he helped Harry lean back against the pillows and headboard once more. “You do not need to hold back any noise of pain, Potter. The room here is blocked from sound escaping.”

The truth, of course, was that he was far more used to being quiet when under pain than letting anything out. He hadn’t even considered doing anything other than keeping it in, reluctant to show how affected he was by what happened. A part of him wondered if his relatives would have hated magic so much if they knew that they could muffle the sounds coming from Harry’s room when he was having one of his nightmares. He’d ask his Aunt Petunia when he next saw her. Maybe Dumbledore could perform the charm or whatever it was when he was dropped off. Belatedly, he realised that Snape was still talking.

“—eed me, I’ll keep the device close at hand.”

“What?” Harry questioned, confused and still a little dazed by the pain. And godawful tired, despite how much he’d slept already. He held back a yawn.

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said, Potter,” Snape growled, clearly annoyed. He pinched the bridge of his nose again, massaging it as he closed his eyes and released a heavy breath. “Arrogant little…” he muttered to himself. “As I was saying, the charm on the room will last for your entire duration here, so you needn’t worry about anything getting out, but you don’t need to worry about needing something and my not being in the room. As long as I’m in the immediate vicinity of the house, I can charm a device to alert me if you need me, much like a baby monitor without sound. If you tap yours with your wand, mine will vibrate. Understood?”

Harry initially balked at the idea of needing a baby monitor, but he also knew he had no intention in asking Snape for anything, so he supposed that it didn’t matter in the long run. How long, exactly, was Snape planning on keeping Harry anyways? And—wait a minute. “My wand?”

Snape moved towards the trunk then and opened it, lifting from it not only Harry’s wand but also a very familiar book. His photo album. He brought both over to the bed, setting it on the end table within reach. “As I said, I spoke to your cousin. He informed me where you hid your things. It was unnecessary, of course, as I could have easily used a summoning charm to determine where your wand was, but he was…helpful in other ways.”

Dudley? Dudley knew where his wand was hidden? And he’d never told his father? That simply did not make sense to him. While Dudley had been ignoring him for most of the summer, he certainly hadn’t expected Dudley to withhold salient information which could have encouraged if not worsened Uncle Vernon’s punishment for him. Dudley hated him just as much as his father did…didn’t he?

Harry was mindful, however, in not causing Snape to lash out again. He considered his words carefully. “What happened at the Dursleys’? Do…do they know about Uncle Vernon?”

The discomfort on Snape’s face was even more apparent now, though a sneer took over at the mention of Harry’s uncle. “They were…aware of what your uncle did,” Snape seemed to reluctantly admit. “They were unsurprised by what befell him.”

Harry snorted at that. He could already envision the punishment that awaited him when he was returned to them. “So they know I’m with you, then?” Which meant Dumbledore would soon know. The brief flare of anger burned in his gut again as he thought of the headmaster. Surprisingly, despite what snark Snape had been able to dredge out of him, Harry hadn’t really been able to feel true anger at Snape yet. Though he did still hate the greasy git, even if he had to finally admit that Snape was on their side.

“Not quite,” Snape replied with a small smirk, settling into his chair against and lifting a small wooden chest from the floor to set in his lap. “After an enlightening conversation with your aunt, I wiped her memory of what took place and manipulated new memories for her to avoid any questions. The lie won’t hold up to questioning, of course, but one can hope that it won’t be needed by then. As far as she is aware, you’ve been with your idiotic friends and your uncle is away on a business trip. With limited communication reception.”

Well. Harry supposed that that worked, for now. “And my cousin?”

“Your cousin…that was an even more illuminating conversation,” Snape dryly began. Harry wanted to grimace at that, but he was too busy fighting to keep his eyes open. “We will…discuss that conversation at greater length at another time. Suffice it to say, things will definitely be changing.” A look of discomfort flashed over Snape’s expression again, but he was looking down at the little chest on his lap and most of his face was hidden by his hair. He listed the lid from the chest, revealing a selection of potion vials inside the box. “He did want me to tell you that he was…sorry.”

This time, Harry did grimace, and judging by the tone of Snape’s voice as he said that, so was he. “Sorry?” Harry questioned, certain he hadn’t heard that rightly, and feeling much more awake now. “Dudley said he was sorry?”

“He wished you to know that he wished he had done more to help you.” Snape sounded sick with the sentimentality of it all, which Harry couldn’t argue with. That didn’t sound like Dudley at all. “He seemed…sincere.”

“I didn’t know ‘sorry’ was even in Dudley’s vocabulary,” Harry muttered mostly to himself.

Snape snorted that time, and it almost sounded like he was amused. Switching gears, he pulled a potion from the collection on his lap. “This is the first dosage to counteract the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. I cannot give you a pain potion with it, I am afraid. However, it is also time to apply more ointment to your eye and to see to your poultices. The refreshment of such should aid in pain relief.”

Harry glanced down at his bare chest—bare save for the bandages wrapped around him, of course. He thought he might have preferred the bone work over what was coming next. “I think I’m fine without that,” he tried to say, but Snape was already shaking his head.

“While some of your injuries I cannot prevent from leaving a lasting scar, others I can. There were some that I could not heal by means of magic as well, tainted as they are by dark magic. We will be doing this, Potter, whether you like it or not,” Snape growled.

Reluctantly taking the potion vial from Snape, thankful his hand was more or less steady finally so he could take it by himself, Harry let out a heavy sigh. He hardly cared about scars or the like, but he had a feeling it was going to be a losing battle. Still. That didn’t stop him from laying a glare at Snape as he quaffed the foul-tasting potion back.

Snape, for his part, looked placidly amused. The bugger.

As Snape moved forward to begin removing Harry’s bandages, Harry thought that, this time, he just wanted to die of embarrassment. Not caring had been a blessing. He missed it. Greatly.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that suicide is a heavy topic, and I know that Harry isn't in a great place right now. I don't want anyone to think I am trivializing depression or suicide. A lot of what Harry's going through, or rather how he expresses what he's going through, I'm using personal experience as a basis. For that reason, a certain section of this chapter was really hard to write which is what took so long.
> 
> Please. If you or someone you know are having thoughts of suicide, please reach out to someone. I know it seems like nothing matters, like you're alone, but you're not. Even if it doesn't seem like it, there are people out there who care about you. Sometimes you just haven't met them yet. It does get better, and yeah, sometimes even then you have dark days. I won't lie. I'm finally in college working towards my dream job, I just finished my first year in fact, with amazing grades. My goddaughter just started school and I have a second godchild on the way whose gender we'll know in like a week. (Even if gender is a social construct but that's another matter entirely.) I have friends and family who love me. And sometimes I still lay in bed in the dark for days on end because even getting up to use the bathroom is an effort sometimes. But then I hear my goddaughter tell me she loves me and misses me and you know what...yeah life can suck. But if you let go of it early, you'll never know what joys are ahead of you. So please. Reach out to someone today. You are not alone.
> 
> [Suicide Hotlines](http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html)
> 
> AND that was more personal than I'd thought I'd get into with this lol. Anyways. Happy holidays my beloved readers. Your comments and kudos give me life. Due to tumblr's idiocy, I've created a fandom twitter which I will most likely be posting most of my updates and occasional progress reports on as well as other fandom and personal stuff. Feel free to follow and I'll look forward to seeing you. ;)
> 
> [Tumblr](http://ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ladyxdarcy)


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